


The Wizarding World Is Not Enough

by Riyan_Blue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chuck (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Aurors, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flourish and Blotts, Hit-Wizards, Humor, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Spies & Secret Agents, Unspeakable Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-06-22 14:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15583722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riyan_Blue/pseuds/Riyan_Blue
Summary: Ten years after the Second Wizarding War, a 28 year old Draco Malfoy is working at Flourish & Blotts. He lives with his roommate, Greg Goyle, across the street from his new best friend, Hannah Abbott. It is not the life he had envisioned when he was at Hogwarts, but it pays the bills.His life is thrown into disarray after his ex-boyfriend, an Unspeakable, sends him an important package which results in the wizarding world's secrets becoming embedded in his mind and he soon wishes he could go back to the days when all he had to worry about was whether or not he would ever get the assistant manager position.





	1. Draco Versus The First of August

Richard Burns, the manager of Flourish and Blotts, narrows his eyes as he surveys his team. He often refers to them in his head as his ‘motley crew’, but this morning, they really look it. Emma looks disheveled and keeps yawning, barely reaching up to cover her mouth when she does. Greg is staring off into the middle distance, clearly in his own little world. Jamie is alternatively examining his nails and biting his cuticles. Joe and Luca are attempting to carry on a conversation in undertones, though Richard can clearly hear that they are discussing plans to go to the pub after work. The other various and sundry members are shifting from foot to foot, looking bored. Only Draco seems to be paying Richard any mind.

Ah Draco, the model employee. Always put together, tie neat, robes straight. He is polite with customers and he works hard. Richard knows his background, of course he does, everyone knows about the Malfoys’ involvement in the war, but Draco has been nothing but professional since joining Richard’s team five years ago.

Richard clears his throat and tugs his shirt down lower over his tummy. Jamie glances up at him briefly, then his eyes flick back down to his nails.

“Ok, team,” Richard begins. “Do you know what day it is?” Emma yawns again and doesn't bother to try to hide it. Greg shrugs.

“It’s the First of August,” Draco says.

“Exactly. It’s the First of August,” Richard says, holding his hands out in two excited fists before him.

“So what?” Joe asks.

“So,” Richard says, taking the time to draw out the word and therefore draw out the anticipation. No one bites. “So, the Hogwarts acceptance letters just went out. And the Hogwarts Supply Lists just arrived in the houses of every single student at that school. And do you know what that means?” He looks around at the team. He sees comprehension dawn in Greg’s eyes.

“Yes, team. It means today will be the busiest day of the year. The day when ordinary house witches turn in to vicious book hunting animals, blinded by the need to get their precious children the correct textbooks, and eager to get the school shopping done early. If this were a zoo I'd say run for your lives, but this is Flourish and Blotts and we run from no challenge!” He punches a fist in the air. He feels his shirt ride up his stomach again but he ignores it. He stares around at his team, wild eyed and excited. They blink back at him. Nathalie blows a bubble with her gum and it pops with a loud snap.

“Yeah,” Greg cries after a beat, raising his own fist. “We’re with you, Big Dick!” Richard grimaces slightly at the nickname and then continues to grin around at them. He looks at Draco, who the team looks up to, and is relieved when the blond man steps forward and begins directing the team to various parts of the store. Richard puts his fist down and straightens his shirt again.

“Right,” he says as the team members begin to move throughout the store. “I will be in my office.” He hurries away, eager to get started on his morning cauldron cake.

…

Meanwhile, many miles away in a top secret location in Northern England, Oliver Wood is in mortal peril. He has found the package that he came to this location to get, but he can hear the hit wizards moving in fast. He curses. His eyes rove the mostly bare room for something he can use as a portkey and, finding nothing, he pulls off his watch. It will do, even though he is loathe to part with it.

He can hear shouts down the corridor and he knows his colloportus won't last for long once they reach the door. His mind casts around for the right person or coordinates to send the package to. He hears a fist slam on the door behind him and he jumps. There is a series of loud bangs as the hit wizards begin trying to break down the colloportus holding the door shut.

Oliver swears and enters the first safe portkey coordinates he can think of, attaches the package to the portkey watch and activates it. It is only after it has disappeared with a faint pop that he really thinks about where he has sent it. It has been years since he has even thought about those coordinates. He had thought he had forgotten them in the post breakup pain.

But the package will be safe there until he or the right Unspeakables can collect it. He looks over at the door and sees that the edges are starting to splay. He runs to the side of the room, next to the door, and flattens himself against the wall. He brings his wand up and bends his knees, ready for the moment the door will break.

And just a few moments later, it does just that, exploding inwards, accompanied by a volley of stunning spells in all directions. One narrowly misses Oliver, even though he is flush against the wall. He sends his own stunning spells through the doorway and then the hit wizards begin to swarm the room.

Once they leave the doorway, Oliver throws up some shielding spells, darts through the door and sprints away down the corridor. He throws more stunning spells over his shoulder as he runs, but he does not dare look back to see if any of them hit home. He rounds a corner and slows down, struggling to get his bearings. If he can just get outside of the anti-apparition wards, he will be fine. But the building security has kicked in and the corridors have scrambled themselves, so he is no longer sure which way to go. But he is prepared for that. He thinks he has prepared for all eventualities, and he hopes it comes out the way he wants it to, but The Reliquary is gone either way, so at the very least, that part of the mission is complete.

He waves his wand around his head and then projects a tiny map onto the palm of his hand. Perfect. If he keeps running down this corridor and then takes a left at the next junction, he will have a chance. He picks up speed again. He risks a glance behind himself and sees that there are two hit wizards pursuing him. He shoots more stunning spells behind himself and pushes on towards the end of the corridor. He feels rather than sees the stunners, jinxes and curses that fly past him. One of the stunners grazes the top of his head and he can smell his hair singe.

He reaches the junction and throws himself around the corner before skidding to a stop. A line of hit wizards blocks the corridor. He is surrounded. One of them steps forward. Oliver narrows his eyes and glares at her.

“Agent Wood,” the hit wizard says. “Perhaps you should have stuck to Quidditch.” Oliver is so damn tired of hearing that line that he says nothing and instead curls his lip into a silent snarl. “Where is it? Where is the Reliquary?” Oliver turns his snarl into a smirk.

“It's gone, Parkinson” he says.

“How? Where?” She takes a menacing step towards him. Oliver presses his lips together and shakes his head. He is starting to see that there is no way out of this. The Reliquary needs to be protected and if they take him alive, they will make him talk. This is one of the eventualities he has prepared for, even if he had been hoping it would not come to this. He puts the tip of his wand to his temple. There is a shout as Major Parkinson tries to stop him, but then his wand flashes and Oliver knows no more.

…

Draco watches as Big Dick scurries off to his office. Draco is fond of the man, particularly as he had been one of the first people in the wizarding world to actually consider him for a job, despite his past. It is a past that he has worked hard to distance himself from over the last ten years and Big Dick’s acceptance of him has done wonders for his feelings of self worth after so much rejection.

Joe and Luca sidle up to him and then stand expectantly in front of Draco, awaiting their instructions.

“So, what’s the plan,” Luca asks.

“Plan? What do you mean plan?” Draco furrows his brow and looks back and forth between the pair of them. Joe’s shirt is untucked and his tie is askew. Luca’s robes are inside out, but he does not appear to have noticed.

“I mean, do we do what Big Dick says?” Joe asks. “Or are we causing mayhem?” Draco takes a deep, calming breath. Dealing with Joe and Luca often takes all of his patience quotient for the morning.

“Yes,” he says at last. “Yes. This is one of the biggest retail days of the year, and how we perform could make or break us.” The last part is something Big Dick had said to them all the other day but he is not overly concerned that Joe or Luca will be upset by the repetition. He is not even sure they will notice it. He is sure they haven't paid much attention to a single thing Big Dick has ever said to them. “You don’t want people going to Quigley’s over in Knockturn Alley, do you?” Quigley’s Mystical Market is the unspoken main competitor to Flourish and Blotts and the Flourish Team enjoys a mostly friendly rivalry with the Quigley’s Team. Both Joe and Luca shake their heads violently.

“Right, boss,” Luca says, saluting him. “We will be model employees today.” Draco does not point out that he is not their boss, because every time he does that, they ignore his protests anyway. In their mind he is the assistant manager, although no one officially holds that position.

“Good,” he says instead. “Big Dick will like that.” Joe makes a face to indicate that he does not care what Big Dick thinks of their performance, but Draco knows it is just an act. All of the employees are very loyal to the man, possibly because he had seen something in all of them where no one else had even bothered to look.

Draco knows he himself would be unlikely to hire most of the rest of the staff for any other job, but somehow their collective weirdness does not take away from the Flourish and Blotts buying experience, and if anything, it adds to the charm. Or at least, that is what Draco tells himself when he turns a blind eye to some of the shenanigans that go on. And if they aren’t the most efficient team? Well, how often do people come into a bookstore with a specific book in mind? In his experience, most people prefer to peruse anyway, so if they can’t find someone to help them, they are generally content.

Today will be different though. He thinks back to the First of August from last year and grimaces. It had been chaotic to say the least. And of course, that had been the year that Big Dick thought it would be alright to re-order the copies of the Invisible Book of Invisibility. Seemingly Flourish and Blotts had had enough staff turnover that no one had remembered the 1993 debacle and so the publishers had been able to convince Big Dick to order another hundred copies to replace the hundred they never found the first time.

This year, the day will be better than that, but not by much. He groans as he thinks about all the Hogwarts mothers who will be descending on the store in only a matter of minutes. He wonders if this will be the year that he will run into an old classmate with their children. He is sure some Hufflepuffs had probably married and had kids right after school.

He mentally scolds himself for his sweeping generalization of an entire house of people. He has been working with Greg on fixing that habit. If the war has taught him anything, it is that those kinds of closed minded assumptions only lead to problems.

Somehow he doubts any of his schoolmates have children yet. Or at least, he doubts that there are any Hogwarts aged children. The first few post war years had been a hectic, messy time for the wizarding community. A flurry of marriages, sure, but not many children.

Draco and his family have predictably faced backlash for being Death Eaters, although the fact that his mother had played a part in Harry Potter’s survival, and the fact that they had defected before the battle even started, means that they have escaped doing any time in Azkaban. Draco is loathe to admit it, but Saint Potter had provided much of the testimony that allowed them to walk free.

Of course, Lucius, in true Lucius form, had thrown a bunch of other Death Eaters under the bus in return for his freedom. It is for this reason that his parents rarely leave their Wiltshire estate, estranged from the world and reclusive with everyone save Draco and, for reasons that still escape Draco, Teddy Lupin. Teddy is related to Draco in a way that he can draw on a family tree, but he cannot articulate out loud. But Teddy will not be starting Hogwarts until next year, so he does not expect to see him or Aunt Dromeda today.

Draco checks his watch and, seeing that it is nearing opening time, squares his shoulders and makes his way to the front of the store. He peers gingerly through the front window. A small crowd has already formed outside. He looks around for Big Dick, but the manager is still safely ensconced in his office and Draco knows he will not emerge until the worst of the rush is over.

He gestures behind himself for the rest of the team to get into position and then counts down the seconds to nine am. Right as he hears the clock on the front of Gringotts begin to chime the hour, he whips his wand out and throws open the doors. Then he stands back and watches as the tide of witches and wizards enters the store. He reaches up and briefly adjusts his tie knot and then he throws himself into the fray.

“Standard Book Of Spells grades one through seven this way,” he hears Greg shout.

“Unfogging the Future and all divination books over here,” Jamie says in a bored voice. He is still periodically examining his nails, but at least he is being partly helpful.

Draco stands near the registers, watching as the flood of people moves through the store. Not for the first time he thinks about the flyer up on the wall of the break room, advertising the assistant manager position. It has been unfilled for several years now and Big Dick wants to put a change to that. Draco knows that more than anything, Big Dick wants an official person that he can push unwanted work onto. Draco resolves that if today goes off without a hitch that he will apply for the position. And then he knows that as soon as he has decided that, there will be problems.

First there is a woman who holds up the checkout queue when she gets to the front and realizes she has forgotten a book and so sends Joe to get it for her, while not giving up her place in line. Then there is a man who Draco watches put a book into an inner pocket of his robes who insists that he hasn't. Draco and Greg corner him and make him turn out his pockets, only to find that he has an undetectable extension charm on the inner pocket and it takes him ten minutes to retrieve the book he has slipped in there. And lastly there is the wizard who keeps trying to ask for a discount for a veteran with one leg, despite having two perfectly good legs, which are both clearly visible under his slightly too short robes.

It is most definitely the First of August, and it is a bitch of a day.

…

“Oliver Wood was one of your agents,Croaker,” General Amelia Dempsey, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement Hit Squad, says. “He was an Unspeakable.”

“Yes, and it was the Hit Wizards’ job to find him,” Director Saul Croaker spits back. They are both mad as hell and Major Pansy Parkinson stands awkwardly between them. She fiddles with her hands behind her back and looks back and forth between the two department heads.

Ostensibly, the DMLEHS and the Unspeakables are supposed to work together, but there has always been tension between the two branches.

She is still seething about the fact that Wood managed to get past her team and steal that book. She is even more mad about the fact that she can’t question the coward about it. Her muscles still vibrate from the adrenaline, even though it was several hours ago now, and she fights the urge to bounce on the balls of her feet. This is neither the time nor place to appear antsy.

“Beg pardon, General,” Pansy says. “What was Agent Wood doing? What is The Reliquary?”

“It’s everything,” Croaker says. “Or, it was.”

“I’m sorry?” Pansy is not sure what Croaker means.

“For the past six months,” General Dempsey says. “Every department in the Ministry - the DMLE, the Department of Mysteries, hell, even some foreign agencies like the International Wizarding Police and the Police des Sorciers in France - all fed information to The Reliquary. Unorganized secrets, just off the wire and a whole lot of archives to boot. The magic behind it worked as a brain, sorting the information and finding patterns in the chatter. Using all the data it was able to piece together things we didn’t and it forewarned us of things still to come.”

“Now, that’s not to say that it was able to make predictions,” Croaker says. “There was no Divination involved. We have determined that Divination is less precise and far more mistake prone than analyzing data and looking for patterns.”

“But I thought a true prediction,” Pansy starts to say.

“Yes, yes,” Croaker interrupts her. “A true prediction is just that, but they are so rare, and there are so many false positives that it’s just not worth wasting the resources on them.” Pansy can see the sense in this. She had always pegged Professor Trelawney as being mostly a fake. Though Trelawney had made two startlingly true predictions in her time, most of the ‘predictions’ that came out of her mouth between those predictions were just balderdash.

“As we were saying,” General Dempsey says, steering the conversation back on track. “The Reliquary is gone, and with it, all of our information.”

“So you’re saying that there is potentially a villain out there with every secret we’ve ever had?” Pansy asks. She works hard to control her face, but in the seriousness of the situation it is hard to keep the alarm from her eyes. She takes a slow breath and forces her facial muscles to relax. This is nothing she can’t deal with. She is not the fastest promoted Hit Wizard recruit in decades for nothing. 

“We have all our best portkey tracers on the case, trying to figure out where he sent the damn thing,” Croaker says. “Unfortunately, as one of my agents, he knew what he was doing and how to cover his tracks.” Croaker looks pained and Pansy almost feels for the man. But then, it was one of his agents who had gone rogue and caused this mess, so she is also incredibly annoyed at him. She knows that General Dempsey is too. Pansy can see her boss’s irritation in the tight line of her mouth.

“So what should we do in the meantime?” Pansy asks. She wants something to do with all of her nervous energy.

“We wait,” Croaker says. “Until we get a lock on that portkey trace.” Pansy gives him a curt nod. She had figured this would be the answer.

“Very well, sir,” she says. She turns to General Dempsey. “General, permission to wait in the training room?”

“Granted.” Pansy salutes and leaves the room. Croaker and Dempsey watch her go.

“She is your pick for heading up this investigation, General?” Croaker asks after Pansy has disappeared from view.

“Major Parkinson is a fine Hit Wizard. She is a rising star in the department and she is hungry for it after Wood slipped through her grasp.”

“It is precisely that slip that I am concerned about, General.”

“That slip would not have occurred if _your_ agent hadn’t gone off the rails, _Director_.” Dempsey’s tone is mocking as she addresses Croaker by his title.

“Don’t pin this on me, Amelia,” Croaker snaps. “No one saw this coming.” He shakes his head. He looks tired as he runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I don’t have a bloody clue why he did this, and I’ve spoken to his partner, and it seems like Potter was in the dark as well.”

“Or so he tells you.”

“What reason do we have to doubt Potter?” General Dempsey considers this.

“None, I suppose,” she says at last. “How is he taking it?”

“Poorly.”

“I can only imagine. Were they close?”

“Wood was Potter’s partner almost from the start. They made an amazing team, which was odd considering they were probably the two most high profile wizards on my team.”

“I’m still surprised you paired them together, Saul.”

“You would have too, if you’d seen the way they interacted in training. They practically finished each other’s-”

“-Sandwiches?” Dempsey allows a small smirk to cross her face and Croaker gives her a grateful smile. He checks his watch.

“I’m going to go check on the portkey team,” he says. Dempsey nods at him and he strides out of the room.

…

“Thank you, and have a nice day,” Draco says and waves merrily as the last customers, a family of four, leave the store. He quickly shuts the door behind them. Big Dick walks over and seals the door with his personal lock, which only he can open, and they are done for the day.

“Excellent job, team,” Big Dick starts to say, but most of the employees have already started to leave, moving as soon as the front doors were shut. Only Draco, Greg and Emma have stayed behind. Draco hears faint yells of “pub!” from the vicinity of the break room. He figures he will join them there later, but he has to get in his evening run first, even though the day has tired him out to the point that he would really rather skip it.

“Same time tomorrow then?” Big Dick asks the three of them.

“Not for me,” Emma says. “I don't work Saturdays.” Her face splits into a grin. “Hooray for weekends! See you lot on Monday.” She turns and quickly makes her way to the back of the store, leaving Draco and Greg in an awkward almost circle with Big Dick.

Draco's weekend so to speak is on Sunday and Monday, so he just nods wearily. He decides then that his evening run is not happening. He is too damn tired.

“Right-o, boss,” Greg says. He salutes. Draco rolls his eyes at him. Greg has come a long way since Hogwarts, but his impulse to follow orders from the most important person around him has been harder to shake. Draco reaches up and put his arm around Greg’s shoulder. It is a difficult feat as Greg is a good six inches taller than Draco.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go to the pub.” They wave at Big Dick and then leave the front room of the store, weaving their way through bookshelves until they reach the break room.

“Don’t you usually go running in the evenings?” Greg asks as they open their individual lockers. Their lockers are next to each other. Greg’s is covered in Hollyhead Harpies stickers, whereas Draco’s has half of a Puddlemere United Sticker, which he has tried to tear off but it has ripped partway through removing it.

“I don’t want to go on my sodding run tonight,” Draco says, wrenching open the door to his locker. “I’m too sodding tired.” Greg grunts his understanding. Draco pulls out his jacket and swaps it for his Flourish and Blotts robes, which he hangs carefully in his locker. Once Greg is ready, they both turn and leave the store and head towards the Leaky Cauldron, only stopping briefly as they pass their house so that Draco can drop off his bag of unused running clothes.

…

Pansy finds that taking her frustration out on the training room’s punching bag is a good way to unwind. And today is most definitely a day when she needs it. She replays the scene in her head over and over as she bounces on her toes in front of the bag. If she had just been a bit faster. If she had thought to disarm him. If. If. If.

 _Whack_. She throws her weight behind the punch and the bag jerks on its chain.

She is the only person in the training room, which is probably for the best. If anyone else had been there, she would have asked them to spar with her and she is not in the mood for explaining to General Dempsey the reason behind why she might have sent someone to the medical floor. She is sure that Dempsey knows how frustrated she is with herself and with the situation, but it is easier not to have to have the conversation.

Pansy knows she needs to clear her head. She needs to put this behind her. Agent Wood was a good agent, which is the only reason he was able to do what he did. It is not all on Pansy’s head that The Reliquary is gone. And Pansy knows that. Wood was well prepared for the mission and he was prepared to die for it too, and Pansy knows that it can be near impossible to stop someone who is willing to die for a cause.

 _Thump_. This time she kicks the bag, bringing her leg up as high as she can in the process. She nearly throws herself off balance but she manages to steady herself. Some of the adrenaline is starting to fade now. Instead she feels tiredness creep across her. She wants nothing more than to go home, change into her comfiest pajamas and curl up on the sofa with a glass of whisky to nurse her pride. But there is work to be done once the techs come back with whatever they can glean.

She takes one last halfhearted punch at the bag and then lowers her arms. She supposes she should get some rest while she can as she has no idea how late she will be in the office today. She brings her gloved hand up to her mouth and rips open the Velcro with her teeth before pulling it off. After removing her other glove, she tugs her pony tail holder out of her hair and runs her fingers through it. Her hair is stringy and damp with sweat. It sticks to her palms as she winds it into a bun which she secures on the top of her head. She takes one last look around the training center and then heads to the locker room.

…

About seven years ago, The Leaky Cauldron, which for hundreds of years leading up to the Second Wizarding War had not changed its decor in the slightest, had undergone a remodel. Tom, the old barkeep had finally passed away, leaving the pub to his niece, Hannah Abbott.

Draco had not known Hannah well in school, more known of her. She had been a Hufflepuff and so their paths had not crossed often, aside from lessons. Draco had not gone out of his way to make friends outside of his house during school. In fact if he were being honest with himself, the main interactions Draco had had with non-Slytherins had been his fights with the Golden Trio, which explained his distinct shortage of post-war friends.

Just over seven years ago, Hannah, newly minted as the owner and manager of the pub, had come across Draco drinking alone in the corner of the bar and struck up a conversation with him. Draco had been in the Wizengamot all that day, listening to his father’s testimony, so his nerves were frayed and his emotions were raw. He had been hiding in the dark corner of the bar for a reason, but she was so earnest and kind that he had found himself chatting to her anyway. Several drinks in, she confided in him that she had been less than enthused to inherit the (in her words) ‘moldy old place’ but Uncle Tom’s will had been very clear that he had wanted her to have it. Draco, also a few drinks in now and feeling less maudlin, had enthusiastically said she should most definitely keep it, and perhaps update it. And would you know who happened to have a decently good eye for these things and little to nothing else to do? Why, Draco of course.

They had become fast friends and soon Draco was spending most of his free time at the Leaky Cauldron, helping Hannah with everything from reupholsteringthe booths to re-wallpapering the guest rooms. When his father’s trial ended and both of his parents had moved back to Malfoy Manor, Draco had decided it was high time he left home. He had just turned twenty one and his trust fund had finally matured and come into his possession. Even after the various fines and barristers fees, he’d had enough money to put a deposit down on his own Mews House in one of the alleys behind the Cauldron. Coincidentally, it was the house across from Hannah’s.

He had worked behind the bar with Hannah for a few years until he realized that few people wanted their drinks served by an ex-Death Eater (even though he had only been 16 when he’d received the Mark and hadn’t really had much of a say in the whole thing). She had generously split her tips with him, but after looking around the bar one evening and seeing a long stretch of patrons waiting for Hannah to serve them and only the most regular of regulars waiting for Draco, he had decided to find another job. Which was how he had ended up at Flourish and Blotts.

Was it what he had envisioned himself doing while he was at Hogwarts? No. But did it pay the bills? Yes. And once Big Dick had hired Draco, he had agreed to take on a subdued Greg Goyle, freshly back from a three year stint at Azkaban, which gave Draco both a roommate and someone to help pay the mortgage.

So really, Draco thinks he cannot complain. Or, well, he could complain, but it would seem ungrateful. Could things be better? Sure. Would it be better if he had a boyfriend? Probably. Does Hannah often nag him about getting a better job or a promotion or a boyfriend? Definitely. But for the most part Draco is content.

Hannah waves to Draco and Greg as they enter the Cauldron and immediately begins to pull a couple of pints for them.

“Ta,” Draco says, sitting down on one of the bar stools. She puts the two pints on the bar and Draco picks one up and takes a large gulp. He had not realized how dry his throat is until the beer hits his mouth and he takes another big sip before putting the beer down again.

“Thirsty much?” Hannah asks.

“It’s the First of August,” Greg says by way of explanation. Hannah frowns at them.

“Hogwarts letter day,” Draco clarifies. He takes another quaff of his beer.

“Ah, no wonder you both look shattered then.” She glances at her watch. “Hmm, give me about twenty minutes and then the evening staff will be here. Then we can all go round to my place for Chinese food or something. Does that sound good?” Hiring staff to work the evening hours so that Hannah did not have to had been one Draco’s favorite ideas.

“Sounds perfect,” Draco says. He picks up his now half empty glass and holds it out to Greg. “Cheers.” Greg clinks his glass against Draco’s.


	2. Draco Versus The Reliquary

Harry Potter is having a shit day. And that is putting it mildly. It might be fair to call it the worst day since the end of the second wizarding war, which in all fairness definitely ranks up there with really shit days. Granted, the end of the second wizarding war was bittersweet as well, as that fucking asshole was finally dead and the Death Eaters had relinquished their control of the government. But in terms of loss of life, it had been really bloody awful. Obviously.

And now this day is turning out to be pretty shit too. Perhaps not as bad, because only one person died, but as Harry and Oliver had been more than just partners, it really ranks up there.

Harry blinks back a tear as he thinks about what they had been talking about over breakfast. It had been so casual. They had been excited about the fact that tomorrow was Saturday and they had the whole weekend to do nothing but sleep late, eat whatever they wanted, and, well, fuck a lot. It had been Harry’s birthday yesterday and Oliver had promised him an entire weekend of debauchery. Because if there was one thing they did well together, it was sex. Not that they were strictly supposed to be sleeping together, but it wasn't strictly forbidden either.

He knows he needs to pull himself together. Croaker is going to need him for the investigation into why his partner went rogue. Harry had known Oliver was a good spy, but Merlin he hadn't thought he was so good as to catch Harry with his trousers down like this. Harry had thought they talked to each other about most things, but clearly there had been parts of Oliver’s life that Harry didn't know anything about.On top of everything else, that stings.

He is glad that he was not in the office when he heard about Oliver’s death. He is not sure how well he would have held his emotions in check. He is, of course, trained to keep himself calm under pressure, but he is only human and this news hurts a lot.

Harry wants nothing more than to curl up in his bed, and inhale the scent of Oliver that he knows is still on the duvet. But Croaker had called him in to deal with the mess that Oliver had left behind and Harry can’t afford for his boss to find out about their ill advised relationship, even if it was involuntarily cut short. So Harry needs to be the consummate professional. He takes a deep, steadying breath as he walks down the corridor to Croaker’s office.

“What is the latest?” he asks once he is standing in front of the man. Harry almost does a double take as he looks at his boss. Croaker is not carrying the stress of the situation well. Harry can see his hair sticking up from where he has run his hands through it multiple times and there are deep furrows in his brows.

“The port key team has isolated the coordinates.The house in question appears to belong to a civilian, though we are not sure who that civilian is just yet. Beryl has gone to fetch the property records.”

“Do you need any eyes on the ground? I am happy to stake out the building.” In fact, a stakeout will be perfect, Harry thinks. It will take his mind off of things. Croaker considers this for a second before nodding and rummaging around his desk for a pen. He scribbles the coordinates down on a piece of paper.

“Yes, if you watch the house concurrently with us getting the records, perhaps you can get an idea of whether or not Wood had any prior contact with this person. Apparate to the nearest street and watch the door.” Croaker hands the paper to Harry who nods and turns to leave. “Oh, and Potter.” He stops. “I’m sorry. I know this must be hard on you. It’s never easy to lose a partner.” Harry does not trust himself to say anything, so he just nods once and then leaves Croaker’s office.

He pulls out his wand and taps his watch as he walks down the corridor. A 3D rendering of London appears above it, centered on where Harry is now. His eyes flick down to the coordinates in his other hand and he waves his wand at the rendering while concentrating on them. The map moves and a small blinking dot appears in a tiny translucent building. Harry prods the image with his wand and the view moves in towards the dot, other buildings and street names coming into focus. Harry scans the surrounding streets for a moment and then nods to himself.

Increasing his pace, he strides, now with purpose, towards the exit. Once outside, he finds the first alleyway that he can, looks around quickly to make sure there are no Muggles about, and then apparates with a small pop.

A brief stop at his house - very brief - just enough time to pick up his invisibility cloak which is his most valuable piece of (possibly not sanctioned) spy equipment, not enough time to get emotional - and then Harry apparates to a quiet street, a few streets over from his mark. He slips under the invisibility cloak and begins to walk.

As luck would have it, two men step out of the house question just as Harry rounds the corner of the street. He sucks in a breath as he sees who it is. Well that answers the question about prior contact. It’s Oliver’s sodding ex-boyfriend.

Harry grinds his teeth and thinks there is no way that this day can get any worse. Happy fucking birthday, Harry. Grumbling to himself, Harry begins to tail the two men.

…

By the time Draco and Greg stumble back across the alleyway to their own house, they are both three sheets to the wind. Once they had gotten to Hannah’s, they split a of bottle of wine between the three of them. When Hannah’s boyfriend, Ernie MacMillen showed up (Hannah and Ernie, the Hogwarts sweethearts, did not help with Draco’s preconceptions about Hufflepuffs), they opened another one. The promised Chinese food never materialized and instead they threw together some spaghetti dish out of things found in Hannah’s kitchen. Finally around eleven thirty, Draco glanced at his watch and called an end to the evening.

“You up for a game of exploding gobstones snap?” Greg now asks as they burst through the door into their house. It is a game that involves exploding snap cards and gobstones and a host of convoluted rules that they had invented on a night similar to this during which they had been equally as intoxicated. Draco’d had the brilliant sense to set up a self writing quill to copy down the rules they would otherwise have forgotten while they played and thus exploding gobstones snap had been created. (They are still working on a better name for it.)

“I think I’m going to call it a night,” Draco says. “We do have work in the morning, after all.”

“Suit yourself.” Greg makes his way to the back of the mews house, where his room is, while Draco turns and heads upstairs.

Draco’s room is at the top of the house, on the fourth floor, under the eaves. In reality, the whole floor is his, though the floor consists of just a landing, his bedroom, and a small bathroom. This evening the stairs feel like they take forever and his feet feel as though they are made of lead. He blames the man with the giant bloody pockets and sticky fingers for this exhaustion. It feels good to blame someone.

He freezes as he reaches the top of the stairs and sees the landing of his floor. There is a large box sitting in the middle of the floor. Draco may be tired and drunk but he knows he did not leave a giant box in the middle of the floor. Carefully he draws his wand from the holster he wears around his waist. Then he proceeds with caution towards the box.

As he nears it, he realizes that there is a watch sitting on top of it. And it is a watch he recognizes. He breathes in sharply. It’s Oliver’s watch. He hasn’t seen Oliver since around the time he started at Flourish and Blotts, but he would know that watch face anywhere. The number of times he had lain in Oliver’s arms, playing idly with the dials and watching the planets move about the face. He takes a step backward. He does not know why Oliver has seemingly sent him a mysterious package, but the year spent trapped in Malfoy Manor with the (other) Death Eaters has made him wary, even now, almost ten years on.

He tries to run down the stairs, only to be impeded by the alcohol in his system. He stumbles down the last few stairs and falls heavily onto the landing, twisting his ankle on the final stair. His wand flies out of his hand and clatters away down the landing, out of reach. He suddenly feels quite sober.

“Greg,” he calls, wincing as tries to stand and put weight on his leg. He collapses back to the floor. His ankle hurts in a way that makes Draco think that it is sprained at the very least. Even if he weren’t worried about the mysterious box upstairs and thus want Greg’s help investigating it, he would now need help getting up the stairs to go to bed.

Something in his voice must alert Greg to the fact that something is not right because a second later he hears his friend’s thunderous footfalls coming towards him up the stairs. As he reaches the third floor, Draco sees his wand is drawn.

“What is it?” Greg asks. His eyes rake the corridor as if he expects there to be an intruder there. Finding no one, he drops his eyes to Draco who is still sprawled on the floor. “Are you ok?” Draco shakes his head.

“I fell down the stairs. Or more accurately, the stair.” Greg lowers his wand and crouches down next to Draco. “I hurt my ankle and my wand went flying somewhere over there.” Draco points down the corridor. Greg nods and waves his wand in the direction Draco points.

“Accio Draco’s wand,” he says and the wand flies over from where it had landed. Greg grabs it out of the air and hands it to Draco.

“Thanks,” Draco says. He points his wand down at his ankle. “Episkey.” Instantly the pain that had been growing steadily while he had been sitting there dissipates. Greg straightens up and pulls Draco to his feet.

“What were you running down the stairs for?” Greg asks.

“A funny thing happened,” Draco starts to say.

“On the way to the forum?” Greg hazards.

“Yes, that’s exactly right.”

“Really?” Greg looks pleased with himself. Draco rolls his eyes.

“No,” he snaps. “There is a strange box upstairs.”

“Strange how?”

“Strange as in I didn’t put it there. It just appeared.” Greg frowns and eyes the stairs nervously.

“Should we firecall someone about it?” Draco can’t believe he did not think to do that and almost smacks a hand to his forehead but stops himself at the last moment. Draco has no idea where Oliver is or could be and so could not even call him if he had wanted to. They had lost touch when they had broken up, and Draco has had no notion as to where Oliver had moved to after he left Puddlemere United. For some reason the Daily Prophet had declined to list his new address in all their coverage of his leaving the team. Privacy and all that.

“There’s no one to call,” Draco says finally. “I know who the box is from, or at least I think I do. But I don’t know how to contact him.” Greg cocks his head to the side and frowns down at Draco.

“Well, if you know who it’s from, then what’s the issue?” Draco sits down heavily on the bottom stair.

“The problem is that I don’t know why he’s sending me anything. He broke my heart, not the other way around.” Draco can’t keep the note of hurt from his voice. A small part of him wants to cry, but this is not the time. Comprehension dawns on Greg’s face.

“It’s from Wood?” he asks. Draco nods. “But why would he be sending you something after so long?”

“That’s precisely what I’m wondering. And that’s why I am so alarmed.”

“But how did it even get here?”

“That’s another good question.” Draco thinks that Greg is full of good questions tonight. Not for the first time, Draco is glad that Greg agreed to be his housemate, even though it could be argued that Draco had been the one doing Greg the favor.

“Well, should we go look at it?” Draco nods and stands. They make their way slowly up the stairs. Draco is still being gentle with his ankle, even though the healing charm has taken care of most of it.

The box is exactly where it was before. Not that he thought that it would move, but they’re wizards and stranger things have happened. After all, the box had shown up here of its own accord. He and Greg both stare at it from about four paces away. After a moment Greg breaks the silence.

“How do you know it’s from Wood?” he asks. Draco points to the watch that is still sitting atop the box.

“That was his watch.” His voice catches slightly in his throat and he prays that Greg does not notice. Greg begins to move his wand through the air, staring at something that Draco can’t see as he does. Draco does not ask where Greg learned how to perform that sort of magical analysis. He is sure the answer would have something to do with Greg’s time as the Amycus Carrow’s teacher’s pet in his Seventh Year at Hogwarts. That time is not a topic they discuss frequently, as both of them are still working to put it behind themselves.

“It’s a portkey,” Greg says finally, lowering his wand again. “The watch is a portkey. Or, more accurately, it was. It’s deactivated now.”

“Can you tell where it came from?” Draco asks but Greg shakes his head.

“Only that it was spelled to come here, to these precise coordinates.”

“Of course,” Draco says, mostly to himself. Those were the coordinates he had given Oliver so that he could apparate into the house without anyone seeing him.

Their relationship had been during the height of Oliver’s Quidditch popularity, and the Daily Prophet gossip witches seemed to stalk the star wherever he went. He had been Quidditch Today’s most eligible bachelor, which Draco had thought was hilarious as Oliver most definitely had not been single. And of course he could not be seen with Draco, who was still tainted in the eyes of the public. So they had met in secret.

The first night they met, of course, was in public. Oliver had come to the Leaky Cauldron and spent the first half of his evening fending off overly flirtatious witches. Draco had been tending bar and had noticed the steady stream of women walking over to one corner of the bar and minutes later walking away looking dejected.

Recognizing Wood from school, he had invited him into the new VIP room that he had created and which he had been trying to convince Hannah was a good idea. Wood had been grateful to escape the adoring (annoying) public and had askedDraco to sit with him in the empty VIP room. (It had been a few months before the idea really caught on.) Somehow Draco’s clumsy flirting must have worked because a few drinks later, Draco had found himself pinned against the wall with Oliver’s mouth on his. He thinks he must have given him the apparition coordinates that night because almost every evening after that, Oliver would turn up on his landing and they would spend the night together. Until, of course, the night when he stopped coming and had never contacted Draco again.

The memory is still fresh in his mind even though it has been several years now. Draco feels a stab of longing go through him and he looks away from the box. and the watch. Greg has been watching him. He must notice a shift in Draco, perhaps a slight slump to his posture, because he reaches out a hand and rests it on Draco’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t ask how Oliver knew the coordinates. He just stands there with Draco, supporting him.

Once Draco has a handle on his emotions, he takes a step towards the box. Greg moves with him. Greg has his wand raised again. Draco decides to throw less caution to the wind. He doesn’t think Oliver would want to hurt him. Or at least, he fervently hopes Oliver wouldn’t want to hurt him. Draco had said nothing about their breakup, not that he had seen Oliver again to say anything. It had been shortly after he stopped coming over that he quite suddenly quit Puddlemere United and became a recluse. Draco knows he is not the only one who hasn’t seen or heard from Oliver in several years.

The box does nothing as he approaches it. It just sits there, box-like and unmoving. Draco decides to just bite the bullet. He walks the last few feet to the box, crouches down next to it and picks up the watch. Before he can stop himself, he lifts it to his nose. It smells like Oliver’s cologne. Draco recognizes it instantly and falls backwards onto his arse, all the energy draining out of him. It is so sudden - it almost feels like being punched in the gut. He feels Greg’s hand on his shoulder again, this time from above.

“It’s definitely from Oliver,” Draco says. “I gave him these coordinates when we first started dating. If you could call it dating.” Draco is no longer sure he would call it that. The only dates they ever had were here in the house, when Draco would cook dinner or they would order take out. But he supposes that was all that Oliver could do. He sighs and Greg squeezes his shoulder.

“So are you going to open it?” Greg asks.

Draco nods and sets the watch down. He reaches over and opens the box. Inside is a large book. Draco reaches in and lifts it out of the box. From the feel of it, it is bound in dragon hide. The pages are gold-leafed. The title on the front reads ‘The Reliquary’ in large, serifed letters, also in gold. Draco frowns at the book. Holding it in his hands, the book feels powerful. He wonders why Oliver has sent it to him. Could it be because he works at Flourish and Blotts?

“Huh,” Greg says. “Interesting.” His tone says he finds it anything but that. Greg does not work at Flourish and Blotts for his love of books the way that Draco does. Greg works there because it is a job.

“It is interesting though,” Draco says. He holds the book up to Greg. “Feel it.”

Greg reaches out a hand and touches the book. He brings his hand back quickly as though it has been burned and he stares at the book with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

“I don’t like it,” Greg says. “It feels wrong.”

“It feels powerful,” Draco says.

“I don’t think you should read it.”

“Greg, it’s just a book.”

“It doesn’t feel like it’s just a book.”

“Fair point.” Draco put the book back into the box. “What do you think I should do with it?” Greg shrugs.

“I dunno,” he says. “Ask Wood why he sent it to you? Take it to work and see if any of the boffins there know anything about it? Either way, I wouldn’t open it.”

“Not even a peek?” Now that Greg has suggested that he not read the book, Draco really wants to read the book. It is the same feeling he had when he was a child, when his parents told him he should not read at night and instead go to sleep. He had done precisely the opposite and stayed up far beyond his bedtime, reading under the covers, consumed by the need to read just one more page and then another, until it snowballed into just one more chapter and so forth. He had come down each morning with bags under his eyes until his mother snuck in one night, caught him at it and grounded him for a week.

“Not even a peek,” Greg says. He reaches up and yawns. “You should sleep.” And he’s said the magic words. The words that mean that Draco will not sleep, but instead will look at the book and just read a couple of pages. But Greg doesn’t know it.

“Fine,” Draco says, lying so that Greg will leave let the subject drop. He closes the top of the box. “I’ll ask Mr Blotts about it tomorrow, if he pays us his usual ‘surprise’ Saturday visit.” He picks himself up off of the floor. Greg stands near the stairs, unsure if he should leave yet.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asks. Draco gives him a small smile and nods.

“I’ll be fine. And everything will be better in the morning.”

“It always is.” Greg starts to descend, but Draco stops him.

“Hey Greg?” Greg looks up.

“Yep?”

“Thank you,” Draco says. He tries to fill his words with the amount of gratitude he feels towards his friend. He is not sure he manages that, but he thinks Greg understands either way.

“Anytime. Sleep well.” And then he disappears around the turn in the stairs.

Draco waits until he hears Greg walk down the third flight of stairs to the ground floor before he walks back over to the book. Pulling it back out of the box, he feels the thrill in the pit of his stomach that comes from knowing he is doing something he shouldn’t be doing. The book thrums in his hands. He starts to open it and then stops himself.

Instead, he walks into his bedroom and places the book on his bed. If he is going to read a book he’s not supposed to read at a time when he should instead be sleeping, he is going to do it properly. Quickly, he changes into his pajamas and goes through his evening ablutions. It is only when he is tucked up in bed, propped up against the pillows, that he picks the book up again.

He takes a moment to admire the cover, tracing a finger over the gold-embossed lettering. It really is a gorgeous book. If Oliver sent it to him because he thought Draco would admire it, he was spot on. Draco is damn well infatuated with it.

Dry mouthed with anticipation, Draco opens the front cover.

And then it is as though a demon possesses him. He reads each page feverishly, unable to look away. He barely blinks as he devours the contents of the book. He cannot quite say what it is about - he is hardly aware that he is reading it. He only knows that it is imperative that he should not stop reading until he reaches the end.

Page after page, Draco reads as though he is a man trapped in the desert and the words are water. The words are life. The words are power. The words are like oxygen and he needs them to live. They pour into his mind, even if he does not comprehend them. Pages turn as if of their own free will as the words march into his brain.

Outside, the moon rises and sets. Stars move through the sky. The world turns.

As dawn’s pale fingers begin to stretch across the sky, Draco finally sets the book down. He has read the entire thing in one sitting. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and then immediately falls asleep, his head finally falling back against his pillow. He does not see the pages of the book tear themselves out of the spine, fly up into the air and disappear until he is left with nothing but an empty cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated :)


	3. Draco Versus The Nemesis

Draco is more than unhappy to be woken by his alarm clock a mere two hours after he has fallen asleep. He scrabbles around on his side table for his wand and tries to banish the damn thing across the room. But a well rested Draco of several years ago had anticipated this scenario and applied a permanent sticking charm to the clock. Grumbling, Draco drops his wand again and hits the clock with his fist until it stops clanging.

He slowly opens his eyes, convinced that he is hungover. He grimaces as he looks around the room, searching for the glass of water he usually leaves on his nightstand after drinking. His bedside light is still on and he realizes he never turned it off before falling asleep. And then he notices the book, and memories of the night before wash over him.

“Oh shit,” he says. He scoops up the now empty cover of the book and stares at the two flaps, while his mind tries (and fails) to understand what happened to the pages. He is suddenly very much awake, even if he is exhausted.

He scrambles out from under his duvet and begins looking around the room as though the missing pages might be hiding somewhere. They are not. He stops and stands perfectly still in the middle of the room. He looks around slowly as if the pages are just playing a game with him and he will be able to spot them if he catches them unawares. This is also not the case. He almost yells for Greg, but stops himself when he realizes that if he does that, he is going to have to tell Greg that he read the book even when Greg said to leave it alone. And he can’t even remember what the book was about.

He remembers finishing the book, sure. He remembers reading the book, and that insatiable need to inhale the words off of the page. But for the life of him, he does not remember any of the content. He glares at the empty cover of the book, which lays open on the bed. He feels like the book is mocking him and he does not like it. He picks up the cover and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud and then falls to the floor. Draco hurries over to it and examines it fearfully, in case he has damaged it. The book cover is fine. It is still inexplicably empty, but it is not damaged.

Draco sits down heavily on the end of his bed. He thinks he should never have opened the book. Damn it, but Greg was right. And now he does not know what to do with himself. He supposes he should get up and go to work and pretend that everything is fine until he can get home and examine the book again. Or, he supposes, what’s left of the book.

He resolves not to tell Greg about what happened as he begins his morning routine. Instead, he turns on the wizarding wireless and sings loudly to the Boiling Cauldrons song that is playing, moving his hips in time to the beat while he waits for the shower water to reach a civilized temperature. He whistles along to the latest Deirdre Wurzbacher ballad as he washes his hair and as he does, he firmly tells himself that he is not thinking about the book. He continues dancing, this time to a classic by the Weird Sisters, as he dresses himself for work.

Once he’s ready, he picks up the cover of the book and puts it back into the box it had arrived in. Then he puts that box into the built in cupboard that is nestled beneath the eaves at the far end of his landing. He tells himself to forget the book. What book? He doesn’t know anything about any book. And he is most definitely _not_ tired from staying up all night reading one.

He almost steps on Oliver’s watch as he makes his way towards the stairs. He stops, the watch in front of his feet, and he wonders what to do with it. After a moment’s pause, he takes his own watch off, picks up Oliver’s and slips it on his wrist. He is not sure why he does it, but if feels right that he does.

“Thank bloody Circe for coffee,” he says as he enters the kitchen.

“You look like shit,” Greg says, looking up from the copy of the Daily Prophet that is reading as he eats his cereal. “Merlin, Draco, we didn’t have that much to drink, did we?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Draco mumbles. He does not want to go into the details and thankfully Greg does not ask. He stumbles over to the pot of coffee that is sitting on the counter and pours himself a mug. He tries to take a big sip, but he burns his tongue and must make do with a smaller one. He opens the refrigerator,pulls out the milk and adds a large splash of it to the coffee. He takes another sip. The coffee is not as hot and so he is able to slurp more of it down, though his mouth still protests the heat.

“Hopefully it’s a slow day today,” Greg says. Draco says nothing, only nods. Perhaps if it _is_ a slow day, he can take a nap in the break room. He lifts his coffee back to his mouth and drinks several large mouthfuls. It is helping, but coffee can only help so much when you are running on two hours of sleep. If only he could remember what the book had been about, then perhaps the tiredness would feel like it had been worth it. But as much as he strains, he cannot remember a single sentence.

He pours himself some more coffee, refilling the mug to the top, and then gets himself a bowl of cereal before sitting down across the table from Greg. Greg turns the page and one of the pictures on the page he has just finished reading catches Draco’s eye. The picture is of an older gentleman with a large, bushy, gray mustache. The man is waving at the camera as he enters a revolving door. Even without thinking about it, Draco knows that this man is Heilgar Mottić, a high ranking Croatian diplomat with ties to some shady figures. 

Before he can say anything, Greg has finished turning the page and is smoothing the paper down so that he can continue reading. Draco stares into his cereal, unsure of what has just happened. If you had asked him yesterday, he is decently sure he would say that he had never heard of this  Heilgar Mott ić fellow, but now Draco can tell you the man’s shoe size (45), height (1.7m) and the name of his two ex-wives (Rita and Natàlia). He supposes he must have read it somewhere, perhaps in passing. He frowns at his cereal and takes another bite. Greg does not notice anything out of the ordinary. 

Draco is still in a strange mood as they make their way over to Flourish and Blotts thirty minutes later. He has a slight case of the too much coffee jitters, but he still feels incredibly tired. It is a terrible combination. And he is still feeling unsettled about knowing the man in the newspaper. He had refused to look at the Prophet again during breakfast in case it had happened again. 

And of course, Big Dick is far too chipper when they enter the store. He has been buoyed by the success of yesterday and begins nattering on in Draco’s ear the moment that he sees him about promotional ideas and events he wants to throw. Draco tries to listen, he really does, but most of what Big Dick says goes in one ear and out the other. He is just _too tired_. 

Thankfully, the morning is quite slow, as most Saturday mornings are, so Draco manages to find time to sneak in an hour long nap, from which he emerges feeling better if not necessarily refreshed. Business picks up somewhat in the afternoon as some Hogwarts stragglers come for their textbooks. Draco has a particularly difficult time with one family who have four Hogwarts aged children, all of whom have some irritating foible or another. By the time they finally leave, Draco is on his last nerve, so when none other than the irritating git who goes by the name of Harry Potter strides into the store, nearly running into the family as they leave, Draco is in no mood to be polite. 

He glares over at Potter as the prick slowly looks around the store. Draco is surprised that no one else has noticed him yet. The last time he had seen Saint Potter, the man had been surrounded by various hangers on. Granted, Potter is wearing a hat which obscures his scar, but Draco had picked him out of the crowded store immediately. 

Circe, it has probably been seven or eight years since Draco last saw Potter. It would stand to reason that things had changed in that time. Draco thinks that the last he heard about Potter was that he was working as some sort of Auror for the Ministry. But when Potter looks over at him, and Draco takes his face in properly for the first time, Draco knows, with that same odd certainty that he had this morning, that Potter is more than just an Auror: he is an Unspeakable. 

Draco frowns. He is concerned both that he knows this, and also that no one has told Potter that being a spy is a terrible career choice for someone who’s face is known all over the wizarding world. But he supposes Potter probably threw some sort of strop and made them make him an Unspeakable anyway. That seems like a very Potter thing to do. 

Potter spots him and starts to walk towards him. Draco’s eyes go wide with what he quickly realizes is fright and he scampers off in the direction of the break room, pushing Greg in Potter’s path as he goes. 

He has almost made it there when he hears Potter call his name. 

“Oi, Malfoy.” Well shit. His distraction tactic hadn’t worked. Not that he thought it would. 

He turns slowly to face the brown haired git. Potter sidesteps Greg who gives him a curious look as he passes, and makes his way to towards Draco at the back of the store. Potter has let someone, probably that Granger woman, fix his eyesight and even at this distance his green eyes look bright without any lenses in front of them. Draco nibbles his lip and pushes away any thoughts of Potter being attractive, even if it is objectively true. He’s not _that_ desperate for a boyfriend. Not that Potter would want him. He never had, why would he start now? 

Draco grinds his teeth, irritated that these teenage rejections still haunt him. Particularly as he also has to remind himself that they weren’t rejections. Potter had hated him. He had never even considered Draco as anything but an enemy. Of course he would never look at Draco in a sexual manner. Even if he did swing that way. Which Draco is sure he doesn’t. 

Draco takes a deep, steadying breath and then plasters a smile on his face. _The customer is always right,_ Big Dick’s voice rings in his head. He will be damned if he is going to let the git ruin any chances of him being assistant manager. Even if he hasn’t yet applied to the position. 

“Hello, Mr. Potter,” he says. “Welcome to Flourish and Blotts.” He is aware that his smile does not reach his eyes, but he is too irritated and _far_ too bloody tired to care. “How can I help you?” Draco takes a step towards Potter, fully taking in his appearance as he does. 

Potter looks good. Really good. The last time Draco had seen him, Potter had been scrawny and pale, barely out of his teenage years and had looked too skinny for his broad frame. Now he has filled it out with muscle. Potter is wearing a black polo shirt, the cut of which shows off his biceps, tucked into grey pleated trousers. The only splash of color on him is his belt, which is crimson with small golden yellow stripes. Because of course Potter would have a bloody Gryffindor belt. Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes. He quickly looks away from Potter’s crotch as he doesn’t want anybody getting the wrong (or is it right?) idea were they to catch him staring. 

“I am looking for a book,” Potter says. Draco gives him a curt nod. 

“Then you have come to the right place.” He opens his arms wide and gestures around the store at the shelves upon shelves of books. “We sell books.”

“Was that Goyle I saw back there?” Potter asks, stepping even closer to Draco. 

“Yes.”

“It’s nice to see he seems to be adjusting well outside of Azkaban.”

“It took him a while, but, yes, he’s doing fine now.” He does not add that it's no thanks to Potter, although for all he knows, Potter helped Greg get a reduced sentence. It's not something that he and Greg talk about much. What is past is past and all that. Draco looks around, anywhere but at Potter’s face. 

“Good, good.” 

“You said you wanted a book?” Draco says after a long moment of silence, during which Draco looked at bookshelves and Potter looked at Draco, trying to make eye contact, a small smile playing across his face.

“I did, didn’t I?” Draco turns back to Potter in irritation. 

“Potter, we’re not at Hogwarts anymore. Stop dicking around. Do you want a book or not?” 

“I’m not dicking around,” Potter exclaims. A look of mock outrage crosses his face. “I most definitely came in here with the intention of buying a book.”

“Oh yeah?” Draco sneers. “Which one?” He crosses his arms across his chest and glares at Potter. Potter smirks back at him. Draco ignores the way that this makes his pulse pick up. 

“This one,” Potter says, reaching out a hand and pulling a book off of the nearest shelf. He does not take his eyes off of Draco. Draco drops his gaze to look at the book Potter has chosen. He snorts with laughter. Potter glares at him and clutches _Prefects Who Gained Power_ to his chest. 

“You weren’t even a prefect,” Draco manages to say in between chuckles. He snatches the book from Potter and reads the back aloud. “‘A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers. Recently updated to include a special section on legacy families.’ Oh shit, this means I might be in there.” He opens the book and begins flicking through the pages. 

“Would you say this counts as having power?” Potter asks, gesturing around the store. His tone is light and he clearly means it as banter, but Draco is offended either way. He stops reading and instead uses the book to whack Potter on the side of the arm. 

“Clearly ten years has done nothing for your manners,” he says. He sticks his nose in the air and begins to walk away. Potter grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. 

“Wait, Malfoy,” he says. Draco stops and turns to face the brunet git again. 

“What?” he snaps. He wants this interaction with Potter to be over as soon as humanly possible, but Potter seems determined to make it drag on. 

“You’re still holding my book.” Draco scowls and shoves the book back at Potter. “Thank you.” Draco turns and attempts to leave again, but again Potter grabs his arm. 

“What is it with you?” Draco growls as he spins around for the second time. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” He is attempting to keep his temper in control - he is at work after all - but Potter is making it very difficult. 

“Ok, you got me,” Potter says. He holds his hands up in surrender. “I admit it. I’m not here to buy a book.” 

“I knew it,” Draco hisses. “You _did_ just come in here to mess around and piss me off. God, Potter, you’re so transparent. And childish. What are you? Twelve?” 

“No, Malfoy. I am twenty eight. I am also not here to piss you off. Quite the opposite in fact. I had come in here to ask you on a date, but it seems that _you_ are the one who who hasn’t grown up any since Hogwarts.” He turns and begins to walk out of the store. Draco stands, gobsmacked, for a moment and then hurries after him. He catches up with Potter as he emerges onto Diagon Ally. 

“Wait,” he calls. Potter spins around. “I,” he starts to say and then his voice catches in his throat. He clears it and tries again. “I’m sorry.” Saying these words to Potter is difficult, but not as difficult as he had previously thought it might be. “I was out of line. I’m a bit tired today.” 

Potter arches an eyebrow at him and it’s all Draco can do not to swoon. That was _his_ facial expression of choice at Hogwarts (that and the smirk) and Potter can now pull it off so well. Or, perhaps he could in school, but Draco never saw it past his glasses. Or Draco didn’t see it because he and Potter were arch-enemies and the only facial expressions Potter had ever made at him were those of disgust or anger. When all he had secretly ever wanted was for Harry to be his friend. Or, if he is feeling honest with himself (which is not often) more than his friend. And now he has the opportunity to make that happen. He wants to pinch himself to make sure that he isn’t dreaming. He had hardly slept the night before, so he supposes this _could_ be a dream. Is he still asleep on the couch in the break room? 

“So, are you saying you would like go to on that date?” Potter asks after a long pause. Draco nods. 

“Yes, Potter,” he says. “I would.” Potter’s face breaks into a smile. Draco gets butterflies in his stomach. In all of the fantasies in which he had envisioned this might happen, it had never gone so smoothly, or fast. Perhaps it is this that convinces him most of all that he is awake. 

“Great,” Potter says. “That’s great.” He shifts from foot to foot. 

“Uh, Potter,” Draco says. “Are there any details aside from, ‘at some point in the future we will go on a date’ that I should be aware of?” Potter looks miles away for a moment before he comes back to the present.

“Right, that,” Potter says. He gives a small, nervous laugh. Draco is not sure he has ever seen Potter nervous. He finds it endearing. “Are you free tonight?” Draco nods and waits for Potter to say more.

“Tell you what,” Draco says after it becomes clear that Potter had not thought much farther than asking him out. “Why don’t you stop by my house for a drink. I will make sure my roommate is out. And then we can go to dinner somewhere. How does that sound?” Draco hopes that this is low key enough that he won’t get too nervous at the prospect of it. He can already feel the nerves starting to hit in the pit of his stomach and Potter is still standing in front of him. Potter gives him a grateful smile. 

“That sounds wonderful. I’ll make dinner reservations. Meet at six?” Draco takes a look at his - Oliver's - watch and nods. 

“See you then, Potter says. “Nice watch by the way.” And then Potter walks off. As he disappears into the crowd, Draco realizes he never gave Potter his address. 

…

Harry is surprised at how much seeing Oliver’s watch on Malfoy’s wrist hurts him. He had known it was Oliver's watch at a glance. Of course he had. He wonders if it can still accept messages. Not that he is going to try that. A smile ghosts his lips as he imagines Malfoy’s alarm at a message popping up on his wrist. 

Although he feels like he should, Harry is not going to stop and evaluate his feelings when it comes to this whole situation. Because of something his late boyfriend had done, he is going on a date with said late boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend, on whom Harry may have had a deeply denied crush, despite them being arch rivals in school? Yeah, he is not about to unpack his feelings about that right now. 

But a mission is a mission and Croaker wants him to find out what happened to The Reliquary after it came into Malfoy’s possession. Those had been Croaker’s only instructions. He had been flailing towards the end of their conversation as their old rivalry had flared, when his subconscious had clearly taken over and asked Malfoy what he had perhaps secretly always wanted to ask him in school. And it seemed that maybe Malfoy had also secretly wanted that. Or, even if he had not wanted that _then_ , he seemingly did want that _now_. 

So, now all Harry needs to do is get dinner reservations. Preferably somewhere in the Muggle world, away from Malfoy’s comfort zone. And, a small part of Harry thinks, away from anywhere anyone who might recognize them. Particularly anyone from the DMLEHS.

Harry knows the DMLEHS have their own investigation into The Reliquary, but he knows Croaker would much prefer to wrap this up internally before there is some sort of interdepartmental incident. He is not sure whose jurisdiction The Reliquary technically falls under, as it was supposed to be a joint project between all of the departments. But Croaker had pointed out to Harry that Oliver had been an Unspeakable, and so fixing his mistake should be done by them. And as Harry is not interested in playing office politics, he will follow Croaker’s orders and let the man deal with any unwanted consequences himself. 

Harry figures he will take Draco to dinner near his house, as it is one of the few parts of London which he knows anything about. He casts through his mind and decides that the Chinese restaurant around the corner might be nice. It is certainly one of Harry’s favorites and if Malfoy doesn’t like it, well, it’s not as though this is a real date anyway. He can go home and complain to Goyle. 

He looks around and then ducks onto Malfoy’s street. There is no one around, but Harry whips out his invisibility cloak anyway. It is midday and he is about to break into Malfoy’s house, now that he is sure both he and Goyle are still at work. 

After all, if Harry can recover The Reliquary now, there will be no need to even go on the date. A part of Harry - a part that Harry is studiously ignoring - still wants to go on said date, even though _most_ of Harry feels as though he is not going be ready for any sort of romantic entanglement any time in the near future. But Harry doesn’t have time for emotions right now. He has a job to do. 

He pulls out his wand and quickly runs some diagnostic spells over Malfoy’s house. There are no obvious wards or security features, which Harry finds odd. He would have thought that someone of Malfoy’s stature would have had at least a few shields or an alarm ward. But perhaps as the senior Malfoys have faded from public scrutiny, so has Draco? _Or,_ thinks Harry, _he has a more sophisticated system that my basic tests don’t show_. He thinks this option is more likely, so he makes his way over to the stoop of the house and sits down to run the more complicated analyses. 

Thirty minutes later, Harry discovers his hunch is right. The security spell is woven so carefully into the structural spells of the building that Harry would have missed them had he not been looking for them specifically. Harry curses under his breath. The spell is not one that he can easily break, nor is it one he can bypass without specific input from either Malfoy or Goyle. He is going to have to wait until tonight when he is invited inside for drinks. Harry sighs. He wonders if this is how vampires feel when they can’t enter buildings. No wonder more of them aren’t spies. 

…

“He what?” Greg asks as Draco relays his interaction with Potter to him later that afternoon. They are loitering around the love magic section, which is generally quite sparsely populated, even on the busiest of days, which this Saturday is decidedly not. 

“He asked me out,” Draco repeats. “On a date. Tonight.” 

“Well, shit.”

“Seriously.” 

“And you said yes?” Greg asks. 

“Yes,” Draco says. Greg frowns at him. 

“Why?” he asks. Draco is not sure what to say. Now does not seem like the best time to explain his complicated mix of feelings that he has had and that he still has about Potter. Draco is not entirely sure he understands all of these feelings himself. On a normal day, he actively pushes them away.

“I figured why not,” he says after a moment. “I haven’t really seen anyone after Oliver left and perhaps it’s time that I do.”

“Even after Wood sent you that book? Couldn’t that perhaps be a sign he wants to get back in contact with you?” Greg asks. “What happened to it by the way? I thought you were going to show it to Mr. Blotts?” 

“Oh, I forgot to bring it in this morning,” Draco says quickly. “Perhaps I will ask him next week.” Greg frowns at him for a moment and Draco fights to keep his face impassive using some of his Occlumency skills he has rarely exercised since the War. Then Greg shrugs. 

Draco has thought about the fact that the book may have been Oliver trying to reach out to him, but he has spent so much time pining over the man that the thought of seeing him again is just too painful. And then, of course, Potter had asked him out and Draco had entirely forgotten about Oliver and the book. He blames his short attention span on the fact that he is tired. 

“So, a date with Potter?” Draco wishes he would let this drop, but Greg has every right to be curious. If someone had asked Draco yesterday if he would agree to go on a date with Saint Potter, he knows he probably would have questioned their sanity. 

“Yes, which reminds me. I need you to not be home at 6pm.” Greg raises his eyebrows and Draco swats him on the shoulder. “It’s nothing like that, just drinks.” 

“At our house?”

“I don't know what I was thinking,” Draco admits. It had just been the first private place he could think of. He regrets it now because he can see the parallels with Oliver. But he doesn't want the world to know he's dating Potter. Or, rather, going on a date with Potter. And while Potter was able to hide under his hat earlier, Draco is not sure that ruse will fool the Prophet for long. 

His mind wanders back to the unexpected information his brain had supplied to him about Potter being an Unspeakable. He is not sure how he knew that and the sudden knowledge disturbs him. He is starting to think that this and the incident with the picture in the Prophet this morning may have something to do with that stupid book. 

He is regretting having read it for multiple reasons now, not least of all that he is still tired from having stayed up for most of the night. And he has a date tonight. Great timing. He's going to be fighting off yawns all through dinner and Potter is going to think it's because Draco finds him boring. Although, if he spends any time talking about how amazing he is or how great he was in the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco thinks he will be resisting the urge to gag rather than yawn. 

“I'm still confused as to why you agreed to go out with him in the first place,” Greg says. He is clearly put out about the fact that he can't go straight home tonight. Draco knows he will get over it as soon as he gets to the Cauldron and sees Hannah, but there are hours to go until then and Draco has to put up with him in the meantime. 

“You and Hannah are always pushing me to find someone,” Draco says. “And now you're questioning the first date I've been on since Ian.”

“Who was Ian?”

“The muggle?”

“Oh, right. He doesn't count. You only went on two dates.” Draco had thought Ian counted. Sure, it had only been two dates, but at least he had gotten laid. “And I'm questioning it because of who you're going on said date with. I mean, it's Potter, Draco. I thought you hated him.”

“I did. Or I do. Or. I don't know, Greg. I’m not sure what came over me. He’s attractive now.” A small part of Draco protests and says he was always quite attractive, in a speccy, annoying kind of way.

“Ah,” Greg says sagely. “So you were thinking with your little Draco then.” Draco claps a hand to his forehead. 

“Of course I was, Greg. It's a date.” 

“So you want to fuck him then?”

“I am not having this conversation with you.” Draco turns and leaves Greg alone in the section. Greg stands and watches him go with a shrug. 

“He wants to fuck him,” he says to no one in particular. 

Draco isn't sure how upset he should be by the question. It is probably quite fair of Greg to ask him that. But while, yes, he realizes he was going to go on a date with Potter, he wasn't necessarily planning to take him immediately to bed. But perhaps he should be planning to do that? What will Potter be expecting? And, probably more pertinent, where will any kind of sex be taking place? Because now Draco feels far too awkward to bring Potter home with him, but he has no idea where Potter even lives. What if they end up apparating to America? Draco quickly dismisses this idea as it is technically impossible, but the trans-Atlantic Floo is a real option and how could he not have considered that? And. And. And.

And nothing. They were going to have a perfectly normal date: drinks and dinner. And who knows what next. Maybe some clothes would be removed, maybe not. Either way, it was none of Greg’s business. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a day late. As ever, feedback is appreciated. :)


	4. Draco Versus The First Date

Pansy stares at herself in the mirror. There are bags starting to form under her eyes. She knows she should have tried to get more sleep last night, but she had spent it tossing and turning in her bed, images of Agent Wood and the flash of his wand replaying themselves in her head. So she had gotten up early and gone back to the training room for another round with her favorite punching bag.

Now she stands in the training facility changing room and stares at the mirror. Her hair is still damp from her post-workout shower. She shivers as a bead of water escapes her bun and runs down the back of her neck. She reaches into her bag and pulls out some under eye concealer. Once she looks a bit more awake, she nods at her reflection and leaves the room.

She checks her watch as she makes her way down the corridor and finds that Dempsey has left her a message, summoning Pansy to her office. Without missing a step, Pansy alters her course. Within minutes, she is standing outside of the antechamber to the General’s office. She squares her shoulders and enters.

Mortimer Banks, General Dempsey’s assistant, looks up from his desk. He nods politely at her and motions to one of the empty chairs that line the wall of the room. She is not in the mood for idle chatter, so she picks a chair as far away from Banks as possible. If he finds this rude, he does not say it. In an attempt to look busy, Pansy raises her wrist and swipes through the messages on her watch. She has read most of them already, but Banks won’t know that.

The minutes tick by and Pansy eventually lowers her watch, unable to distract herself further. Banks is now reading a memo and she watches as his dark eyes scan the page, flashing from one side to the other. She looks away before he can catch her watching him. She doesn’t want him to think she might have any attraction to him.

That is always a problem with being one of the only women on the DMLEHS. Sure, General Dempsey is a woman, but they are few and far between in the hit wizard ranks. And for some reason, which Pansy finds irritating to no end, all of the men assume that she wants to sleep with them. And if she had a knut for every time she had said she didn’t and the man in question just told her she would come around, her Gringotts account would be a whole lot shinier.

And so she had had to be the best and she pushed herself until she was. She saw the disbelief on so many of those ignorant men’s faces whenever she gotpromoted ahead of them and she smiles at the thought. Sure, some people may call her a bitch, but it is a name she wears with pride, because in her opinion, bitches get stuff done.

“Major Parkinson,” Banks says, snapping Pansy out of her reverie. She looks over at him. “She’s ready for you now.” She gives him a small, tight lipped smile as she heads over to Dempsey’s office. Banks is one of the good ones, she thinks.

“Ah, Parkinson,” Dempsey says as she enters the General’s office. “Just who I wanted to see. Please sit.” She motions at the pair of chairs in front of her desk and Pansy takes one.

“General,” she says, inclining her head.

“We have located The Reliquary.” As usual, Dempsey gets straight to the point. Pansy sits up straighter in her chair, not that she had been slouching. “It has fallen into the position of a,” she pauses to look down her nose at the papers on her desk. “Of a Draco Malfoy.” A shock of recognition goes through Pansy. She hasn’t thought about Draco in years. They had begun drifting apart in Sixth Year, when it had turned out Draco was busy carrying out a plan to kill Dumbledore, and then he had not come back to school the following year. And while the Parkinsons had perhaps been acquainted with the wrong people and dabbled in the more grey arts, the Malfoys had thrown their lot in with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And so somehow she had not found the time to see Draco after the war, a predicament she sometimes regrets. But really, she barely has any free time as it is and what little she does, she mostly spends with Millie, Daphne and Izzy.

“I understand that Mr. Malfoy was in your year at school,” Dempsey says. She looks up from her stack of papers. Pansy frowns, thinking for a moment that the General is referring to Malfoy Senior, but she realizes her error and nods.

“Yes,” she says. “We were both in Slytherin together.” She regrets her words instantly. She has spent the last ten years trying to distance herself from her house, at least in terms of her professional life. She is still so ashamed that the entire house had been sent away during the Battle of Hogwarts and is even more so since it had been because of her words. She has worked so hard to prove to everyone that she is better than that now. 

“Ah, yes.” Dempsey refers to her notes again. She must sense Pansy’s unease, that or she notices the fact that Pansy is no longer looking her straight in the eye, but rather looking ever so slightly to the left of her gaze, because she adds, “Some of our best hit wizards have come from Slytherin. Ambition isn’t always a negative trait, Parkinson.”

“Of course, General,” Pansy says with a nod.

“Now, I have heard some whispers through the grapevine that the Unspeakables are conducting their own investigation into The Reliquary, and I want you to get to it first. Our intelligence on Mr. Malfoy indicates that he lives at 34 Sorella Gardens. He appears to have a roommate.” She lifts the top piece of paper and peers at another sheet beneath it. “A Gregory Goyle.” Pansy is surprised by this information, but she does not let it show on her face. The last she had heard, Greg was in Azkaban, but clearly he was no longer there. She is not surprised that the two of them are still friends though. She doubts Greg has any other friends and she remembers how absurdly fond of Crabbe and Goyle Malfoy had been, even despite the fact that he had deliberately picked them as friends so that they could protect him from some of the older, meaner Slytherins.

“The pair of them work at Flourish and Blotts,” Dempsey continues and Pansy can’t help but snort in amusement at the thought of Draco in retail, a position that the Draco she remembers from school would have seen as pedestrian. “Is something funny, Parkinson?” Pansy quickly rearranges her features into her usual serious face.

“No, General.”

“Good.” Dempsey pauses and rests her elbows on the table, making a tent with her arms. She leans forward and rests her chin on her hands as she regards Pansy. Pansy does her best to sit still and straight. After a long moment of scrutinizing Pansy, Dempsey leans back in her chair. “If it were any other one of my agents looking into an old friend, I might have reservations, but Parkinson, you have shown that you are nothing if not professional. Don’t make me regret keeping you on this case.”

“I won’t.” Pansy almost salutes, but she senses that the meeting is not over yet.

“Good. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you again how important this book is.” Dempsey brings a hand up and pinches the bridge of her nose and Pansy realizes that the General looks even more tired than she herself does. “You have my permission to do whatever it takes to get it back.” Pansy blinks in surprise. She knows the situation is serious, but she had not realized that it is _whatever it takes_ serious. She nods her acknowledgment. “Very good, Parkinson. You are dismissed.” Pansy stands and walks to the door of Dempsey’s office. Once there, she stops and salutes before leaving.

…

Draco arrives home at half past five and immediately panics about the state of the house. Why hadn’t he thought to tidy it this morning? An irrational thought, sure, because this morning he didn’t think he would be bringing anyone over, but this acknowledgment doesn’t help his current predicament. He pulls out his wand and begins waving it erratically around the room. 

Various plates fly across the room and into their cupboards, narrowly avoiding the cups and glasses headed to a different cupboard. All of the drawers in the kitchen open as various and sundry cutlery and other cooking implements put themselves away. A blanket soars through the air, looking for all the world like the muggle idea of a ghost, and then settles, neatly folded, on the end of the sofa. This morning’s Daily Prophet slinks along the tabletop, down the leg of the table and then finally over to the recycling bin in the corner. The table sets itself. A set of tarnished candlesticks swoops out from the corner of the room. They are met in mid air by the silver polish and a rag. Once they are gleaming, they settle onto the table and two dark blue tapered candles nestle themselves into the holders. Another flick of the wand and the candles are lit.

Draco starts to get out a bottle of wine before he realizes that he is not sure what Potter will want to drink. He does not want to seem presumptuous. But what if the wine doesn’t have enough time to breathe? That’s all well and good, but what if Potter wants beer? Do they even have any beer? Draco hurries to the refrigerator that Hannah insisted they get. Ernie had even rigged it so that it ran on magic. He pulls it open and sighs in relief when he sees a small collection of cans and bottles inside. He peers at them more closely and realizes he is not quite sure where they came from. He wonders if Greg has somehow already told Hannah about his upcoming date, because if he has, it seems likely that she might have come over and stocked their fridge. She was a thoughtful Hufflepuff like that.

Draco almost frowns at himself for the generalization, but then figures it is alright to cast a whole group of people as kind and caring. After all, everyone knows that Hufflepuff is the nice house and he doesn’t think, or at least no longer thinks, that being nice is a thing to sneer at. Particularly not right now as his refrigerator is fully stocked thanks to his very kind friend. He shuts the door to the fridge and that’s when he spots Hannah’s note taped to the front of it. He had missed it in his rush to see what was inside.

_Have fun tonight, lover boy,_ the note reads. Hannah has drawn a winking smiley face under the text. Draco smiles and then crumples up the note. It would not do to have Potter see that. He uncurls it after a moment and instead folds it and sticks it in his pocket like a good luck charm.

He glances at the clock and sees that it is now quarter to six. His stomach lurches with nerves. He still needs to change and so he takes the stairs up to his room two at a time. Although his closet seems to mock him while he tries to pick out an outfit that is both nice, but also not trying too hard, he makes it back down to the kitchen by two minutes to six. He takes one last look around and decides that everything looks fine. He sighs and sits down on one of the chairs only to leap up a moment later as he hears the doorbell ring.

He practically flies down the stairs and then skids to a stop in front of the door. He checks the hall mirror quickly and smooths down a stray hair. His reflection winks at him and he rolls his eyes at it. He tugs his shirt down one last time and then opens the door, in a way that he hopes looks casual and not like he is a giant ball of nerves.

Potter is standing on the doorstep holding a bottle of wine. He is wearing an awkward smile, a pale blue button down shirt and navy trousers. Draco is pleased to see that he has taken off the unsightly Gryffindor belt.

“Hi,” Potter says.

“Hello,” Draco replies. They stand there for a moment, neither of them saying anything.

“Can I come in?” Potter asks at last. Draco all but slaps a hand to his forehead.

“Oh, right. Yes, of course.” He moves to the side and leans in what he hopes is a casual manner against the wall next to the door. As his hand touches the wall, he feels for the security ward and adds Potter to the list of allowed people. “Come in, come in.” He gestures and Potter finally takes the hint and walks inside. Draco shuts the door behind him. “Uh, the sitting room is upstairs.” He allows Potter to walk up the stairs before him and it is only when he is then eye level with Potter’s arse that he thinks that perhaps he should have gone first. And now he is worried that Potter will think he is checking him out. Which, in all fairness, Draco is, but he does not want Potter to know that.

Of course, Potter is oblivious as it turns out. He is too busy looking around the house to even notice Draco, which makes Draco immensely happy about the fact that he had had time to tidy up when he got home.

“This is a lovely house,” Potter says. He turns and hands Draco the bottle of wine. “Now, I’m not sure if we want to open just yet that as our dinner reservations are at eight, and I’m not sure if you want an entire bottle of wine before dinner? It might be a bit much, but then there are about two hours, so perhaps it would be perfectly fine and of course there are two of us.” Draco thinks Potter is babbling, which he takes as a good sign. It means Potter is as nervous as he is. “And, then obviously, it also depends on how we want to get to dinner. Any ideas?” Potter runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly at Draco.

“Well, where is dinner?” Draco asks.

“Chelsea.”

“We could take the Tube?” Draco suggests.

“You would take the Tube?”

“Why wouldn’t I take the Tube, Potter? It’s a form of transportation.”

“But it’s a _muggle_ form of transportation,” Potter points out, a sly smile creeping onto his face.

“I am aware.” Draco stares at Potter for a moment, a serious look on his face, and then he cracks a similar smile. “I am not averse to muggle transportation, you know.”

“Right, sorry. I just thought-”

“-That I was the same git you knew at Hogwarts?”

“I wasn’t going to say git.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Potter protests and Draco instinctively bursts out laughing at his discomfort before stopping himself.

“As you pointed out earlier, it’s been ten years.” He winks and then instantly regrets it. Who even winks anymore? “So,” he says quickly by way of distraction. “What would you like to drink?”

“Well, if we take the Tube, that obviously takes longer than apparating.” Potter is clearly still stuck on the question of transportation.

“Obviously.” Potter narrows his eyes and glares at Draco, but there is no venom in it. In fact, Draco can see the ghost of smirk on Potter’s face. Draco sticks out his tongue in playful response. He nearly bites it in his haste to put it back in his mouth. He is horrified at his behavior. What is he _doing_? This isn’t even _good_ flirting. And it is most unlike him, even for a ten years post Hogwarts Draco.

“And then there is a bit of a walk from South Ken to the restaurant,” Potter continues after a pause.

“Well, then let’s apparate,” Draco says. It seems like the obvious answer. Potter nods his agreement. Draco glances at the clock on the mantlepiece. While it feels like he and Potter have been bantering for an age, it turns out it is still only seven minutes past six. There is plenty of time to finish the wine. “And let’s have the wine. Thank you for bringing it, by the way.” He walks over to the kitchen and rummages through his drawers for a bottle opener. As he starts to work it into the cork, he finally takes a good look at the label.

“Merlin, Potter. You brought Opus One?” He looks over at the brunet, who looks uncomfortable. After a moment, Potter shrugs.

“Hermione said it was good wine,” he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. He turns and begins to pace the length of the living room.

“It is. Granger has good taste.” He pulls the cork out with a pop. “Though, not in men.” Potter snorts in amusement, turning back to face Draco.

“Don’t be mean about Ron,” he says.

“I don’t date gingers.” He pulls down a pair of wine glasses and pours the wine.

“That seems unfair to gingers.”

“Fine, I would probably date _some_ gingers,” Draco relents. “But I wouldn’t date Ron, even if he were asking.”

“He wouldn’t ask,”

“ _He_ probably still thinks I’m that same git he knew at Hogwarts.” Draco walks over to Potter and hands him a wine glass.

“Cheers,” Potter says, smiling warmly, and they clink glasses. Draco moves to the sofa and sits down. After a moment, Potter chooses one of the armchairs and lowers himself into it. “And yes, I imagine that Ron does still think you’re a twat.”

“Charming.” At this, Potter chuckles. Draco ignores him for a moment in favor of his wine, which he swirls around in his glass, before raising the glass to his nose. He wishes he were better at distinguishing the different aromas of wine. He always just thinks it smells like wine, a fact that Hannah likes to tease him about. He tries, he really tries, to discern hints of blackberry or leather or whatever, but fails. He takes a sip and lets it settle over his tongue. It is good wine - very good wine in fact. Draco may not know how to discern the individual notes in a glass of wine, but he can tell if it’s good. He holds the glass towards Potter.

“Thank you for the wine,” he says. “It’s really quite delicious.” Potter gives him a small, tight smile. Draco decides to move the conversation on. “So now that we’ve settled on wine and transportation, are you going to tell me where we’re going for dinner?” He catches Potter mid-sip of wine and waits for him to swallow the mouthful down.

“Mm, this place near my house,” Potter says. He wipes an apologetic hand across his mouth. “It’s called Made in China.” Draco’s eyes widen in surprise and delight. He knows exactly the restaurant that Potter is talking about. Oddly enough, he had gone there with Ian. The food had been delicious and he has been trying to find an excuse to drag Greg to dinner there, but Greg is somewhat wary of the muggle world and only ventures out when he has good reason to. Draco has tried to point out that really delicious food _is_ a reason to leave the cocoon of the wizarding world, but Greg has yet to be convinced. Perhaps if Draco can bring home leftovers…

“I love that place,” he says. Potter looks taken aback.

“You’ve,” he stutters. “You’ve been there?” Draco nods.

“Also on a date.”

“Oh.”

“But I won’t bore you with the details.” Potter nods and takes a big sip of his wine.

“Sorry,” Potter responds after a moment. “We can go somewhere else if you would prefer.”

“No, no! Not at all. I’ve been wanting to go back there, but Greg hasn’t wanted to venture out to Chelsea.”

“Greg is aware that he can apparate, right?” Potter asks.

“Yes, but he’s a bit nervous of Muggle London.”

“He knows they don’t bite, right?”

“I mean, unless it’s while they’re gagging on your,” Draco stops himself before he says cock. “Shit, that’s not first date talk.” He slaps a hand over his mouth. Potter roars with sudden laughter and Draco sees his shoulders relax for the first time since he arrived. It seems Potter is as nervous as he is about this date. He lowers his hand and bites his lip. “Sorry,” he says. “I haven’t been on a date in a while.” Potter waves his apology away, still chuckling.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says.

“Normally I’m not nearly so crass.” Draco is unsure if this is strictly true, but he thinks he will blame his lack of any partner short of his hand for this particular outburst.

“You’re not?” Potter asks. “More’s the shame. I quite enjoyed such dirty things coming out of such a pretty mouth.” Draco raises an eyebrow at him, surprised by this sudden shift in Potter’s demeanor.

“Now, Potter, I must tell you. I don't fuck on the first date. So don't get your hopes up.” _Yes, you do,_ says Draco's traitorous mind.

“Well, damn. I guess I’ll just have to wine you and dine you and see where it goes then.” And now they are in uncharted territory and even in all of Draco’s fantasies, the conversation has not gone here. Draco lets the comment hang in the air and watches as Potter’s mouth slowly quirks into a smile. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“So,” Draco says. “What have you been up to for the last ten years?”

“Not much. Been here and there.”

“I heard you joined the Auror force.”

“You heard correctly. How about you? Has it just been Flourish and Blotts?”

“Well, for a time I was working at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Were you? How did I never see you there?”

“I mainly worked lunchtimes. And in interior design.” He laughs at himself. “I’m not really sure I can call it interior design. There was no real design in mind. It was a bit of a hodgepodge of things that Hannah could afford to replace at any given time.”

“That was you?” Potter asks.

“At least in part.”

“I didn’t realize you and Hannah were so close.”

“Well, we weren’t in Hogwarts, but I’m sure you knew that.” Potter nods and takes a sip of his wine. He doesn’t try to fill the silence, so Draco continues. “She was one of the first people who really talked to me after the War. I mean, aside from my parents and my barrister.” Now it is Draco’s turn to take a sip of wine. He is not sure why he is opening up to Potter this way, but it feels good to share. “I guess I shouldn’t have given the Hufflepuffs so much shit in school. They’re clearly the nicest house.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Potter says.

“Sure-what?”

“Sherlock,” Potter says. “As in Sherlock Holmes.” Draco frowns in confusion, so Potter continues. “It’s a set of Muggle book about a detective.”

“I’m not sure I understand the reference.” Potter shakes his head.

“Never mind,” he says. “It’s not important. You were telling me about your time at the Leaky Cauldron.” He gestures for Draco to continue.

“Right, yes.” He takes another sip of wine. He thinks he is probably drinking it too quickly, but there’s not much he can do about that now, except to slow down. “Well, Hannah and I became fast friends, and she hired me to work behind the bar, which was kind of her because not everyone was willing to take a chance on an ex-Death Eater like me.”

“Wait, you did actually take the mark?” Potter asks. Draco grits his teeth.

“Yes and no,” he says. Potter cocks his head to the side in confusion. “Well, because I was still in school when I joined, V thought it would be best to keep that fact a secret, so instead of a full mark, I just got a small snake tattoo.” He pulls up his sleeve and shows Potter the coiled silver snake on his left forearm. “This way if anybody asked, I could say that it was a House tattoo, or something like that.” Potter nods. “And then after…” Draco finds he can’t say it.

“After Dumbledore died,” Potter prompts. Draco is relieved that there is no malice in Potter’s tone.

“Yes, that,” Draco agrees. “After that, I left school. Mother insisted that we wait to give me the full Mark, although wait for what I was never sure. And somehow, it never happened. I think perhaps V forgot in all the other things that were going on. I came when everyone was summoned, so what did it matter? I was a Death Eater in everything but the full snake and skull.

“Greg has had a harder time of things as he actually got the damn thing. I’m not even sure when he had the time to get it. He was in Hogwarts for most of the war. We’ve done everything we can think of to fade it or cover it, but it’s stubbornly still there.

“But anyhow, it doesn’t matter that I don't have an actual Dark Mark, because everyone knows about my family and our involvement anyway.” He can’t bring himself to look at Potter, so instead he looks down at his hands. He silently curses his decision to go on this date. Dating muggles, while difficult in its own way, is much easier - there are no long, uncomfortable conversations about the past that he has tried - and is still trying - to put behind himself.

“Your mother saved my life,” Potter says. His voice is quiet and when Draco looks up at him, he has a faraway look in his eyes.

“Yes, well, the Malfoys aren’t all terrible.”

“I never thought you were terrible.”

“But -” Draco splutters.

“-Just misled.” Potter puts his wine glass down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I mean, who the fuck knows who they are at sixteen? I sure as hell didn’t.” Draco works to keep his face impassive as a flood of emotions - relief, curiosity, gratitude - washes over him.

“You didn’t always know that you wanted to be the savior of the wizard in world?” He asks. Potter gives short bark of laughter, behind which Draco can hear an aggrieved tone.

“I didn’t _want_ to be anything,” he says. “If anything, I wanted to be bloody normal.” He leans back into the armchair’s soft cushions. “You try having teenage angst on top of being stressed out about some asshole constantly trying to kill you, all the while people are telling you that _you_ , a teenager, must be the one who defeats him. Talk about pressure.”

“It’s a wonder you grew up so normal,” Draco says, adding a hint of sarcasm in an effort to lighten the conversation again. He had much preferred the flirting part of their conversation. He is rewarded by a small smile crossing Potter’s face.

“Ha, bleedin’, ha,” Potter says. “You’re one to talk.”

“Hmm. I suppose in our own ways we both had shit childhoods, didn’t we?” Draco says. Over the past few years, he has started to realize that the childhood he had previously thought was rather sheltered and spoiled, was instead devoid of much emotional stability.

“Hogwarts was my salvation,” Potter says.

“Mine too, now that I think of it.” Potter looks as though he is going to say something, but then stops himself and instead picks up his wine glass and, seeing there is not much left in it, drains it. He stands.

“More wine?”

…

Harry is no longer sure what he is doing. Or, rather, he is, but his traitorous heart (libido?) is leading him astray. He should be more professional on this mission. He needs to wine and dine Malfoy so that he can learn about The Reliquary. And yet, here they are, having this deep discussion about the War and their childhoods.

It is all Harry can do not to bring up the fact that Malfoy was part of what made his childhood so rubbish. How much easier would Hogwarts have been if he and Malfoy hadn’t been at each other's throats the entire time. But he supposed that was partly because of old wizarding family rivalries. If the Malfoys and the Weasleys hadn’t hated each other, perhaps Ron and Malfoy would have gotten along that first day on the train. But instead, Malfoy had insulted the only friend he’d had at that point. He has worked hard to get past the fact that Malfoy was probably just parroting his father back then. And that really, he had grown up being told certain things about muggles by his parents, so of course he would be inclined to believe those things himself. Where would he have gotten any other points of view from as a child? In fact, over the years Harry has found this about many wizards, including some who had not been supporters of Voldemort.

He realizes that he has dawdled too long by the wine and walks back over to the living room area. He hands Malfoy his refilled glass.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He decides to take the bold move of sitting next to Malfoy on the sofa as opposed to going back to the chair he was in earlier. Or, rather, while Harry thinks it’s a bold move, Malfoy doesn’t bat an eyelid. But now that Harry is there, he realizes he is looking out at the room, and not at Malfoy. He shifts in his seat so that he is facing towards the blond and in doing so, he ends up bringing their knees together. And then once he has done that, he can’t take it away again or he’ll look like a twat. Merlin he wished he had tried harder during seduction class.

In Harry’s defense, he knows he is better at doing this with women. The stakes are never as high because it is a rare occurrence these days that he will be as attracted to them as he will to some of his male marks. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t care what Malfoy thinks, but unfortunately that is not how attraction works. Why couldn’t Hannah Abbott have been the person Oliver sent The Reliquary to?

But Harry knows the reason. Somehow, even after he hadn’t seen Malfoy in years - _years_ \- he trusted him more with this important piece of government property. Not for the first time, Harry thinks that perhaps Malfoy was in on the whole thing. Perhaps they planned it together. This thought makes Harry somewhat sick to his stomach, which somewhat ironically makes it easier to lean forward and put a hand on Malfoy’s knee.

“I heard a rumor,” he says. “That you have also taken a liking to Gyrffindors, post-Hogwarts. Perhaps a certain Gryffindor turned Puddlemere United Keeper in particular?” To his delight, Malfoy flushes crimson. He watches as the other man takes a large gulp of his wine.

“I never said I disliked _all_ the bloody Gryffindors,” he finally says. He looks distinctly uncomfortable and Harry feels a stab of compunction.

“So the rumors are true? You did date Quidditch Today’s most eligible bachelor?”

“Where did you even hear about it?” Malfoy snaps. Harry says nothing, instead letting the silence draw out. Malfoy downs another mouthful of wine. “Fine. We dated. Kind of. But that was years ago. And before you ask, I have no idea where the fuck he is. He broke up with me before he disappeared. Or more accurately, the asshole disappeared without even saying goodbye. He just fucking _left_.” It is the mix of venom and hurt in Malfoy’s voice that convinces Harry that Malfoy is telling the truth. And it is like a switch has flipped in Harry’s mind and he is back to being nervous and awkward, only now his hand is still on Malfoy’s knee and he’s not sure has the courage to go any farther.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Malfoy’s demeanor softens.

“No, Potter, _I’m_ sorry. No one wants to hear about their date’s exes. Although, you _did_ ask.”

“Allow me to show you that not all Gryffidors are jerks,” Harry says, and before he can think better of it, he leans forward and captures Malfoy’s lips with his. Malfoy tastes of wine, which Harry should have expected, and his lips are soft and pliant, parting easily as Harry’s tongue slips its way inside Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy pulls back after a moment. Harry tilts his head to the side, questioning without words why the kiss had stopped.

“You haven’t finished wining and dining me yet,” Malfoy says with a smirk. “We’ve only done the wine part.”

“Are you complaining about the wine?”

“Not in the slightest. I was just making the point that I’m not that easy.”

“That’s a shame,” Harry says. “I was enjoying kissing you.”

“Well, buy me dinner and then we’ll talk.”

“More talking?” Harry arches an eyebrow. It is a skill he has worked on since leaving Hogwarts. Is it a skill he learned particularly because it used to drive him crazy when Malfoy would do it in school? Possibly.

“Oh, shut up, Potter,” Malfoy says. “You’re not nearly as attractive as you think you are.” Harry grins.

“Oh, so you think I’m attractive.”

“No, I think _you_ think you’re attractive.”

“Sure.”

“You’re decent looking.”

“Sure, yep, that’s what you meant.” Malfoy scowls at him for a moment then he leans forward, stopping just as his lips ghost over Harry’s.

“You’re much easier to deal with when you’re not talking.”

“Is that so?” Harry asks. He does not close the gap between them. Two can play this game.

“Yes.” Malfoy tips his chin down and rests his forehead against Harry’s for a moment before he sits back again, separating their faces, and the spell is broken. “But I guess I just have to put up with your inane chatter until later.” He smirks and takes a sip of his wine. Harry regards him thoughtfully.

“So you’re saying you need to eat first so you can get your stamina up?” Malfoy closes his eyes for a long moment and Harry can’t tell if his is trying not to laugh or if he is trying not to hit him. He thinks he sees the corners of Malfoy’s mouth quirk upwards but he can’t be sure.

“You just wish you were so lucky,” he says, opening his eyes again. “I already told you, not on the first date.”

“Whatever you say,” Harry says, throwing his hands up in defeat. But he doesn't think this conversation is over. Not really. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this being a week late - I was at a conference last week and had little to no spare time. As ever, your feedback is appreciated.


	5. Draco Versus the Top Hats

The restaurant is mostly full when they arrive. Harry gives his name to the waiter and the man leads them to an empty table towards the back of the restaurant. Harry is a little bit tipsy from the wine, but not so much that he can’t concentrate on the purpose of his mission. They had not finished the bottle he had brought, but rather corked it with just over a glass and a half left. And Harry knows that food will help lessen his intoxication.

He opens the menu and pretends to read through it, even though he already knows what he is going to order. It is what he gets every time he comes here. Except this time, the bill will helpfully be picked up by the Ministry, so he is going to order more food than he knows he will eat and then take the rest home as leftovers. Does he feel slightly guilty about doing this? Yes, but not guilty enough that he’s not going to do it.

“Do you know what you want?” he asks after enough time has passed that it seems reasonable to broach the subject.

“Top Hats,” Malfoy says without hesitation. “I’ve been dreaming about them since I was last here.” Harry smiles.

“We might want two orders then,” he says. “Because they’re my absolute favorite thing on the menu.” Malfoy nods.

“How about the Szechuan crispy pork?”

“And some noodles?” Harry prompts.

“Noodles _and_ rice,” Malfoy agrees. They decide to split some hot and sour soup as well and are very ready to order by the time the waiter comes to their table. Harry throws in another bottle of wine, almost as an afterthought. It can’t hurt. He has promised both wining _and_ dining after all.

With the ordering out of the way, Harry watches as Draco looks around the restaurant. He still seems nervous, which Harry supposes is a good thing, although it does make him feel a little bit bad about asking him out under false pretenses. Harry is enjoying himself more than he thought he would, but he knows their relationship likely can’t last past this evening. He is unsure if he would want it to anyway. He is still mourning Oliver, even if he does have to put those feelings aside for work. Perhaps that was what had made it so easy to kiss Malfoy earlier, though Harry would be a liar if he said he hadn’t enjoyed it.

The waiter comes with their bottle of wine and they watch as he laboriously opens it. Harry knows that they do this in order to show that the wine is freshly opened, but sometimes when he watches a waiter struggle with a corkscrew, he wishes they would just bring open bottles. As it is, he feels like he has to nod and smile and appear appreciative for the entire time the man is there. Finally the cork releases with a soft _pop._ The waiter looks at Harry and then at Malfoy, enquiring who should try it. Harry points at Malfoy. He had known that the wine he had brought over this evening had been good, so Harry assumes Malfoy must know more about wine than he does. Granted, that is not hard. Harry knows that he likes wine and that is pretty much the extent of his thoughts on the matter.

Malfoy lifts the glass to his nose, smells it, swills the wine around briefly and then takes a sip. He seems to consider the wine in his mouth for a moment before he nods.

“It’s good,” he says. Then they both watch as the waiter pours wine for both of them. Harry almost wishes they had ordered by the glass by this point. Eventually the man retreats to the kitchen again and they both pick up their glasses.

“Cheers,” Harry says, holding his glass out. Malfoy clinks his glass on Harry’s.

“To stupid school rivalries,” Malfoy says.

“And getting over them.”

“Speak for yourself.” But there is a smirk on Malfoy’s face and a sparkle in his eye that tells Harry he is kidding. Perhaps this wining and dining is going better than he thought. But it should be going well, Harry supposes. After all, he _is_ trained in it.

Before they have the time to start another conversation, the waiter returns, this time bearing plates. One is covered in tiny wonton cups whose edges splay out like the brim of a top hat, from whence the dish gets its name. The top hat filling is in a separate bowlso that they can fill the cups as much or as little as they want. Once the waiter leaves, they both reach for the spoon at the same time. Harry inwardly winces. In response, they both draw their hands back, each of them trying to be polite to the other.

“You go first,” Harry eventually says after they do the same thing again. Malfoy nods and picks up the spoon and one of the little cups. Harry’s mouth waters. He has not realized quite how hungry he is and it is taking all of his self control not to leap over the table and take the spoon out of Malfoy’s hand as he serves himself. Harry bites his lip and instead takes a sip of his wine.

The first bite, once Harry finally gets to it, is heavenly. The shells are crisp, the shrimp based filling is salty and a little bit sweet and the vegetables, which Harry thinks might be jicama or some sort of water chestnut, give the filling just the right amount of crunch. He looks over at Malfoy and sees a similar expression of ecstasy on the blond’s face as he chews.

“Mmm, oh,” Malfoy all but moans as he finishes his bite. “These are just as good as I remembered them.” Harry grins.

“Good,” Harry says. Then he goes back to concentrating on the food. Malfoy can wait. His stomach cannot.

…

“It was so strange, this morning I really wanted to sleep in, but I was interrupted by a _songbird_ outside my window,” Harry says, changing the subject.

He watches Malfoy carefully as he casually drops a benign mission code name into the conversation. Croaker had mentioned this particular mission as a test whether or not Malfoy had (stupidly) read _The Reliquary_. Of course, if he had, then the mission to bring the book back is decidedly a bust. The information would be gone. Or, rather, it would be stuck in Malfoy’s head.

They are onto the crispy shredded pork now and Harry keeps having to take sips of water to combat the spice of the dish. He watches Malfoy over the top of his water glass.

For a moment, Malfoy looks at him blankly, but then Harry sees something in Malfoy’s posture shift as he almost imperceptibly stiffens in surprise and Harry’s heart sinks. The book is gone. Malfoy has read it. And in that moment, Harry knows that his mission has changed. Now, Malfoy is the asset, and thus is the thing that Harry will have to bring in to Croaker as soon as he possibly can. And to do that, he is going to need Malfoy to trust him. He quickly changes the subject, moving away from any work-related topics.

Eye on Malfoy, Harry watches him sit for a moment, right before before he seemingly catches himself and begins to eat again. The pork almost tastes like cardboard in Harry’s mouth now. The fact that The Reliquary is gone and the potential implications of that are swimming around his head. What will happen to Malfoy? Is it possible to get the information out of the blond’s head? And more importantly, is it possible to do that while keeping him alive. Because he sure as hell does not want to explain to Narcissa that her son is dead. He knows first-hand how much she cares for him. It’s the reason Harry is still alive.

All of a sudden, he catches a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and acts without thinking, throwing himself in front of Draco, and putting up a shield charm as he does. All heads turn as the front window of the restaurant shatters. He feels rather than sees a stunning spell hit his shield and ricochet across the restaurant. An unfortunate patron slumps in her chair. He pulls Malfoy down, throwing up another shield in front of the both of them. Harry gestures for Malfoy to head towards the back of the restaurant, but Malfoy is immobile with either shock or fear, or perhaps a combination of the two.

“Move,” Harry hisses at him. Malfoy blinks as though coming out of a dream and then begins to run in the direction that Harry indicates.

“What is going on?” Draco asks as they run down the corridor that goes past the kitchen. There are screams and crashes coming from the restaurant behind them.

“I’m not quite sure,” Harry gasps, still running. “But don’t worry. I’m going to protect you.” The corridor ends in a door and they burst through it and out into the night. Harry quickly pulls Draco to the side and whips out his invisibility cloak. He presses Malfoy to him and throws it over both of them. He leans back so that Malfoy can see his face and then holds a finger up to his lips. Malfoy snaps his mouth shut and nods. His eyes are wide with fear and Harry can feel how fast he is breathing.

The back door opens again a moment later and Harry hears Malfoy’s sharp intake of breath. He turns his head and sees Major Pansy Parkinson with her wand out. Her eyes flash with irritation when she can’t find them. Harry clamps a hand over Malfoy’s mouth, not trusting him not to say anything. Malfoy glares at him but Harry ignores him.

They watch as Parkinson scowls at the alleyway. She slowly lowers her wand. Her shoulders slump.

“Fucking Potter,” she mutters and then adds something inaudible. Harry almost feels sorry for her, but then he remembers that she had just tried to knock them out. He is surprised that she was so brazen. The DMLEHS must be really gunning to fix the situation before the Unspeakables can. He wonders if she knows The Reliquary is gone. He doubts it, or she would have been more gentle in trying to bring Malfoy in.

He jumps as he feels Malfoy lick the hand that is clamped over his mouth. Harry slowly removes it and they watch as Parkinson taps on her watch briefly before turning back to the back door of the restaurant. She has begun to pull the door open, when Malfoy sneezes. She whips around, wand up and advances toward them again.

“Who’s there?” she asks. “Show yourself or I start hurling jinxes.” Harry sighs.

“Circe, Parkinson,” he says, pulling off the invisibility cloak. “You're going to have to Obliviate every muggle in that restaurant. Let's not make it the whole street.” Harry is more than miffed about this. He really likes the food there, but now he is worried they’ll never let him back in. Parkinson ignores Harry and instead focuses her attention on Malfoy.

“Hi Draco,” she says. Malfoy nods at her.

“Pansy,” he says. “I see you're a hit wizard now.” Harry groans, convinced that Malfoy has given away that he has read The Reliquary, but then he notices that Parkinson’s jacket is embroidered with their crossed wand seal. Then he realizes that Malfoy must know he is an Unspeakable as that information is likely in the database that now lives in Malfoy’s head. He wonders why Malfoy hasn't said anything about it. Then he wonders if Malfoy has figured out that is the reason for their date. Harry partly hopes that he hasn't.

“Let’s skip the pleasantries, Draco,” Parkinson says. “Why did Wood send you The Reliquary and where is it?” Harry watches as the color drains from Malfoy’s face.

“I, uh, don’t know what you’re,” Malfoy starts to say. Parkinson rolls her eyes at him.

“Cut the crap. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She points her wand at him. Harry sees a mix of astonishment and fear cross Malfoy’s face. Harry frowns and takes a step towards Parkinson, raising his own wand.

“It’s gone,” Malfoy blurts out.

“What?”

“Well, the cover is still there. But the pages are missing.” Parkinson’s eyes narrow as she stares at Malfoy.

“Are you telling me you fucking read it?” Malfoy audibly gulps.

“Yes?” Parkinson rounds on Harry.

“Did you know about this?” she asks. Malfoy frowns and looks at Harry.

“I suspected.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.” They stand there for a long moment while Parkinson continues to glare at both of them, alternating between them.

“Could we,” Malfoy starts to say. Both Harry and Parkinson turn quickly towards him. “Ah, could we perhaps lower the wands?” Parkinson frowns but she and Harry both slowly point their wands at the ground, though neither of them put them away.

“What now, then?” she asks.

“I dunno,” Harry says. “We bring him in?”

“Woah now,” Malfoy says, holding his arms out in front of himself as though calming a nervous horse. “Bring me in where? And why? Have I committed a crime?”

“ _You_ didn’t,” Parkinson says. “That idiot’s partner did though, when he stole the damn thing from the Ministry.”

“It’s _stolen property_?” Malfoy gasps. He leans against the side of the alleyway for support. He covers his mouth and looks as though he is on the verge of tears. Parkinson glances nervously at the door. 

“Why don’t we move this conversation inside,” Harry suggests. “I live just down the road.” He points is the general direction of his house.

“Sure,” Parkinson says, although her tone makes it clear that this is not what she wants to do. “I just need to call this in. Give me your address, Potter. I’ll meet you there once I’ve contacted my boss.”

“My street is literally right there,” Harry says. “I’m number twelve.” Parkinson nods and turns away, already fiddling with her watch. Harry takes Malfoy by the hand and leads him down the alleyway. The blond stumbles a couple of times over his own feet before he comes more to his senses. Gently, Harry steers Malfoy down the street until they reach his front door. Harry leans Malfoy against the wall while he undoes the locks and alters his security wards, then he propels Malfoy inside.

…

Pansy is so angry, she thinks she could kill Draco. Of _course_ the idiot read the damn book. He’s Draco Malfoy after all and the Draco Malfoy that Pansy had known in school did whatever he damn well pleased, consequences be damned. And it seems as though nothing has changed. She could quite honestly kill him.

Except, now he’s the asset, isn’t he? He is the proud owner of all of the Ministry’s secrets, whether he knows it or not. So she can’t kill him. In fact, she must do the opposite of that, at least until they figure out a way of getting all of the bloody secrets out of his head. She suddenly wants to curse whomever thought up with The Reliquary in the first place. It seems like such a stupid idea in hindsight. All the Ministry's secrets in one book? Now in just a single person’s head? What a stupid idea in hindsight! It seems like madness just thinking about it. 

But then, she thinks, if someone else had read it – someone like _her_ – well, then there would’ve been value in the idea. She would have been amazing with all that information. That is to say, she would have been even more amazing than she already is.

Pansy can think of at least fifty other people who would be better suited to the task of keeping all that knowledge, and their main qualifications are that they are _not_ Draco Malfoy. Not that Draco is all terrible. There was a time when they had been friends after all. He could be charming, occasionally thoughtful and, like most Slytherins, fiercely loyal, but he is still a selfish jerk at heart.

There are days when Pansy wishes they had stayed friends, but then she remembers how withdrawn and miserable he was in their sixth year school – the last year that she really saw him – and how he pushed everyone away as opposed to letting them help him. She knows why he did it, of course. It is part of the reason she doesn’t think he is the right person to be the living incarnation of The Reliquary. At the end of the day, he had balked at killing Dumbledore, or so she had heard. If she is being fair, which isn’t often, she knows she would have done the same thing in his place. She, too, had been a coward at the age of seventeen. She knows she wouldn’t have helped him back then, even if he had asked her to. But Pansy knows a lot can change in ten years. Perhaps she is being too hard on Draco. Either way, she needs to stop stalling and call this in.

She watches as Draco and Potter exit the end of the alleyway and turn onto the street beyond. They take a left and are quickly lost from view. She waits another thirty seconds or so before she taps her watch with her wand. She twirls it with practiced ease until she reaches the portable Floo-Chat functionality. She taps the watch face one more time and says General Dempsey’s name. There is a whooshing noise and then a small, ghostly image of Dempsey’s office projects above the watch face.

“Major Parkinson reporting in, General,” Pansy says once she sees that Dempsey is alone. She waits while Dempsey makes her way over to the fire place and crouches down.

“Go on, Major,” she says once she is seated next to the fire.

“I located Draco Malfoy. He was at dinner with Agent Potter. I believe Potter was on a reconnaissance mission. I observed them from the window for a short while until I noticed a figure emerging from the kitchen with what appeared to be a Confuso-bomb in one hand and an Instant Swamp in the other. I swear, I would recognize those Triple W logos anywhere. So I, er, got involved.” Pansy pauses here and looks shamefaced down at her shoes. She knows he's has created a giant mess inside that restaurant, and Minister Tusneem will not be pleased with her.

“Involved?” Dempsey prompts. Pansy purses her lips for a moment and then continues.

“Yes, General, I went in wands blazing. I imagine I will hear the Muggle sirens at any minute now.” She pauses again and strains her ears. Sure enough, she can hear a wail starting to pick up in the distance. “But I secured the asset.”

“You have The Reliquary?” Dempsey asks. Her tone is filled with undisguised excitement.

“Yes and no,” Pansy says. She watches as the tiny image of Dempsey cocks its head to the side.

“I ascertained that Draco Malfoy did have The Reliquary and also that he had read it.” It is hard to tell with the tiny image, but Pansy swears she sees Dempsey’s posture slip for a second.

“And where is this Malfoy now?”

“With Agent Potter.”

“You just let them go?”

“General, all due respect, but we needed to get Malfoy off the street as soon as possible. I’m going to meet them at Potter’s residence, but I need to secure the bogey before I can do that. I knocked him out before pursuing Potter and Malfoy, but he is still inside the Muggle restaurant.”

“Banks,” Dempsey yells and a moment later, the image flickers and Pansy knows that Mortimer Banks has stuck his head in the room. He is so tiny on the image floating over Pansy’s watch that if she had not known to look for it, she would have missed him. “We need an emergency team at,” she pauses to allow Pansy to fill in the rest of the location.

“Made in China, in Chelsea. Near the corner of Limerston Street and Fulham Road.”

“Potential hostile,” Dempsey adds. “I want wands blazing. And a full team of Obliviators.” Pansy sees the small shape that is Mortimer nod and leave.

“I will stay here until–” Pansy begins to say. 

“–Like  hell you will. Get over to Potter’s. Now. I will not have the Unspeakables be the only team to secure The Reliquary. This is now a joint mission whether we like it or not.” Pansy nods and signs off. Though she does not think Draco is much of a flight risk, she is not going to tell Dempsey that. Pansy has the feeling that she is on thin ice as it is. She pauses, staring at the door of the restaurant for a moment, before she turns and strides down the alley towards Potter’s house.

…

Draco feels numb. Oliver has fucked him. And not in a good way. And, Draco supposes, he has fucked himself even more by reading the damn thing. Why did he have such poor impulse control? Why could he have not just left the stupid thing until the morning? Greg had been right. And he hates it when Greg is right.

But then how had he been supposed to know it was stolen? Or that it would disappear like that? He still has no idea how it got to him. Or, well, he knows the how, but he is still clueless about the why. And what was that that Pansy had said about Oliver being Potter’s partner? Did that mean that Oliver had been dating Potter or that he had been an Unspeakable as well? He is not sure which of those would be worse.

He suddenly realizes that he is in Potter’s house and takes a second to look around himself while Potter locks the multiple locks on the door. He is in a small entrance hall which has a cream marble tiled floor and off-white walls. A small, round fish eyed mirror hangs on the wall to his left. There is a staircase in front of him, carpeted in some sort of natural fiber that is a golden straw color and an open door to his right, through which he can see part of the sitting room.

He allows Potter to lead him into the sitting room, which is bigger than Draco would have thought it would be from the outside, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it has been magically extended. There is a large red sofa against one wall and Draco sits down on this. It is more plush than it looks and he sinks down into the cushions. Potter walks over to the window and lowers the blinds before opening the lid to what Draco had assumed was a side table, but appears instead to be a hidden bar.

“Would you like a drink?” Potter asks. Draco considers this for a moment. He has already had a decent amount of wine tonight, but he also feels like he had most of the sobriety scared back into him by their mad dash out of the restaurant. He looks down at his hands in his lap and notices that they are shaking

“What’s on offer?”

“Whisky, port, gin,” Potter recites, pulling each bottle up briefly to allow Draco to see their labels.

“Whisky,” Draco says and then adds “please,” when he remembers his manners. Potter squats down next to the bar and opens another part of the contraption in order to pull out two glasses. He pours significantly more than a finger into each of them and then hands one of the glasses to Draco.

“Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do.” Potter sits down next to Draco on the sofa. He kicks his shoes off and pulls his knees up in front of him, leaning back into the cushions. He takes a large sip of his whisky and then throws his head back to rest on the back of the sofa. “Fuck,” he says, still staring at the ceiling. Then he seems to come to himself and he sits up again. “I’m so sorry about this, Malfoy.”

“I’m not even sure what _this_ is.” Potter grimaces and takes another sip of his whisky. Almost a quarter of the amber liquid is gone and Draco has not even had a single sip of his. He raises his glass to his lips and lets the whisky slide over his tongue. It is very peaty and the taste of it recalls memories of home and sneaking into Lucius’s whisky collection when he was fifteen.

“It’s complicated,” Potter says. “And I’m not going to get into it before Parkinson gets here.”

“I take it she wasn’t originally part of the plan?”

“No, she wasn’t.” A thought occurs to Draco.

“Was that even a real date?” He watches Potter’s face carefully and his heart sinks when he sees a small frown flit across Potter’s face. Potter seems to think that this an important enough conversation to warrant sitting up again, which he does, placing his feet back on the floor and turning to look at Draco.

“Yes and no.”

“That’s not a real answer.” Draco tries to think back to all the things they talked about. He knows he bared his soul to Potter, and he regrets this now. Potter puts a hand up to his forehead and massages his temples between his thumb and middle finger.

“The pretense for the date was a pretense,” Potter says eventually, lowering his hand again. “But everything else was real.”

“So you’re saying the kissing _was_ real then?” Draco is not sure why he picked that to be the thing he fixed on. He figures it has something to do with the fact that he hasn't been on a date in two months. Perhaps Greg is right. Draco _does_ want to fuck Potter.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“Kiss me.”

“Kiss you?”

“Yes, damn it.”

“Ok.”

“Ok?”

“Ok.” Potter shifts sideways on the sofa until he is pressed up beside Draco. Then he reaches out with his free hand and cups Draco’s cheek, turning his face until they are looking at each other. Draco realizes he has been holding his breath and takes a hurried breath through his nose. He can smell Potter’s cologne. It is spicy and sweet in a way that reminds Draco of chai tea. Potter closes the gap between them and presses their lips together.

And then the doorbell rings and they spring guiltily apart.


	6. Draco Versus The Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

“Major,” Harry says as he opens the door. Parkinson is standing on his stoop and he ushers her quickly inside.

“Potter,” she acknowledges as the door closes behind her. “Nice place you have.” She looks around the entrance hallway appreciatively. Harry nods stiffly and leads her into the sitting room, where he left Malfoy. 

The blond has pulled his legs up on the couch in a criss cross in front of him in the time Harry has been gone, but other than that, he is right where Harry left him. He looks up as they enter and nods at Parkinson. After acknowledging him, she sits down on one of the two armchairs. Harry retakes his seat next to Malfoy.

“Where were we?” Parkinson asks.

“Someone stole a book?” Malfoy hazards.

“Oliver Wood.” Parkinson practically spits out the name.

“And I read it, which seemingly was the wrong thing to do.” At this, Parkinson gives a short, humorless laugh.

“It was probably not what we would have preferred you do,” Harry says. Parkinson shoots him a quick glance and then returns her attention to Malfoy.

“Can someone explain to me what this book was?” he asks. “And why it's such a big deal? And why I seem to know random shit that I didn't before?”

“Did you want to take this?” Parkinson asks Harry. He considers for a moment and then shakes his head.

“You know more about it than I do,” he says. She gives him a quick nod and then sits up straighter in her chair.

“For the past six months,” she says. “Every department in the Ministry, and a few foreign agencies, gave information to The Reliquary. Unorganized secrets, just off the wire and a decent number of archived secrets. The magic behind it works as a brain, sorting the information and finding patterns in the chatter. Using all the data it is able to piece together things we haven’t and it can give us a bit of forewarning. How it does that, I’m not exactly sure - no one gave me those details.

"But one thing is fore sure: it was never intended for civilian use. In fact, I’m not even sure quite what it _was_ meant for as it was stolen before it was ever actually put into use."

“And now I’ve read it,” Malfoy says softly.

“Yes, you have. And now all those secrets and all that data are in your head.”

“Well that explains Mott ić,” Malfoy mutters almost too quietly for Harry to hear. Harry perks up. 

“What about  Mottić?” he asks. Harry knows that the Croatian diplomat is in London, but it seems Malfoy, or more accurately The Reliquary inside of Malfoy’s head, knows something he doesn’t. 

“Nothing,” Malfoy says. He looks up from his whiskey glass. “I just saw a picture of him in this morning’s Prophet and knew everything about him. It was unnerving.” Harry lets out a breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding. 

“Look,” he says. “I know that this must be a bit of a shock to the system,” he says and Malfoy scoffs. “And I’m sorry that you have gotten caught up in this, but we’re going to have to bring you in to the Ministry so that the higher ups can figure out what to do with you.” Malfoy’s mouth twists into a grimace and he taps his thumb nervously on the side of his glass. Harry looks up at Parkinson who is frowning at Malfoy. When she feels Harry’s gaze on her, she looks up and catches his eye. She purses her lips together briefly and the begins to speak again. 

“That's not the only thing,” she says. “I know you think I came into that restaurant wands blazing-”

“-Well, you did,” Harry interjects. She shoots him a glare. 

“Fine, I did, but it was only because there was an incoming hostile and I wanted to protect his sorry arse.” She jabs a thumb at Malfoy. Harry’s breath catches. How had he missed that threat? If Parkinson notices his alarm, she doesn’t comment on it. “I neutralized the man while you two ran out the back. The DMLEHS should have picked him up by now.”

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Harry says. She sighs. 

“I was watching you two from the street. You both looked adorable by the way.” Harry is suddenly very aware of how close he is sitting to Malfoy. Is it too close? Suspiciously close? Would Parkinson figure out that they had been kissing before she arrived? Even if it had been for all of two seconds. 

“And then after about an hour, a different waiter emerged from the kitchen, only he was wasn’t carrying food. He had a Confuso-bomb and a Portable Swamp.” Harry raises his eyebrows. “Yes, I know, classic kidnapping materials.”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy cuts in. “ _Kidnapping_? With a Portable Swamp?”

“It’s quite common these days,” Parkinson explains in a bored voiced. “Confuso-bomb takes you unawares and then you get stuck in the boggy parts of the Portable Swamp when you try to stagger away. Even if you don’t get stuck fast, you are slowed down. Then someone comes in with a Stunner. And one, two, three and Bob’s your uncle.” She makes a gesture with her hands to indicate tying someone up. Malfoy looks mollified. 

“I’ve tried to get Ron to discontinue those swamps,” Harry says. “But George insists on keeping them. You know, because Fred invented them.” He is not sure that either of them know what he is talking about, but neither of them say anything. After a long enough silence has passed for it to become awkward, Parkinson nods and continues. 

“So I acted immediately. I’m sure General Dempsey won’t be pleased that I made such a mess, but I had to protect Draco.” She shrugs. “I would have gotten the guy in the first shot if your shield hadn't gone up so fast, Potter.” But she smirks to let Harry know that she’s not overly annoyed.”Kudos to you for your reflexes.” He gives her a small, tight lipped smile.

“But why would they come after me?” Malfoy asks. Harry thinks that he looks more pale than usual. 

“That is a good question,” Parkinson says. “And one that I do not know the answer to. Potter, how good are your security wards?”

“I’m offended you would even ask.”

“I’m going to add a couple more. Draco, you’re going to stay here tonight.”

“But-” Malfoy begins to protest, but Parkinson shakes her head sharply at him and he quiets. 

She pulls out her wand and walks into the hallway. Harry thinks perhaps he should have put up more of a fight about the situation, but he knows the Major is right. This _is_ the safest place right now. They can bring Malfoy in to the Ministry in the morning. 

He turns to look at Malfoy, concerned that they have thrust too much information on him in one go. The blond is staring into the middle distance, eyes glassy, still clutching his now empty whiskey glass. 

“Would you like some more?” Harry asks, gesturing to the glass. Malfoy shrugs. 

“Possibly.” Harry stands and walks over to the bar. He puts a hand against the wall as casually as he can so that he can feel what protection Parkinson is adding to the house. He frowns when he does not recognize the ward she is using and goes back to getting Malfoy some more to drink. He pulls the bottle out of its resting place and carries it over to the couch. He has the feeling they might be needing it again. 

“Someone has a heat tracking spell on your house, Potter,” Parkinson says as she walks back into the room. 

“Sorry, what?” Harry asks. He looks around the room as if whomever has placed it there might be hiding behind some furniture. Parkinson shrugs. 

“I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, so I didn’t disable it in case it raised any flags.” She sits back down in the armchair. “Or in case it was your spell,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. 

“What does that mean?” Malfoy asks. 

“Well, someone wants to know when people move about this house, when they come and go, what room they’re in. That kind of thing.” 

“I’m never leaving.” Malfoy pulls his knees up in front of him and wraps his arms around them. “Nothing is safe.”

“Perhaps,” Harry says as the thought occurs to him. “Someone is trying to figure out if we’re on a real date.” Parkinson frowns at him. Now that she has put up her own security wards, she seems more relaxed and so has pulled her feet up under her on the chair. 

“Why would they care?” Parkinson asks. 

“Why would they try to kidnap either of us?” Harry asks, sitting up straighter, convinced that he’s figured it out. “I will confess, it’s not the first time someone has tried to kidnap me and make me fall in love with them.” Both Malfoy and Parkinson stare at him, eyes bulging. “What? I’m Savior of the Wizarding World and all that.” Malfoy snorts. Parkinson looks over at the blond, catches his eye and smirks at him. 

“Isn’t that why you went on the date, Draco?” she asks sweetly. 

“Hell no,” Malfoy says. “I agreed to go on this date because Potter’s decently attractive and he asked me out.” Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise before he can stop himself and his pulses races unexpectedly. Parkinson eyes Harry critically for a moment and then shrugs. 

“Eh, he’s not my type,” she says. She begins to study her nails in disinterest.

“So he’s not Marcus Belby then?” Malfoy asks. Parkinson looks up in surprise, her mouth in a small O. Malfoy chuckles to himself. 

“How-?” she starts to ask.

“Oh, Pans,” Malfoy says, reaching over to pat her on the hand. “It was painfully obvious. All those longing glances over at the Ravenclaw table…” he trails off. 

“Fine,” she says after a moment. “If we’re going to bring up school day crushes,” she pauses, sitting up straighter in the chair again. She takes a deep breath and Harry thinks she has been steeling herself to say this to Malfoy for a long time. “You know, if you had just kept your eye on the snitch instead of on Potter during Quidditch games, we just might have won more of them.” 

…

Draco’s mouth drops open in surprise and he feels blood rise in his cheeks. Of all the crushes he had thought Pansy might bring up, this was not the one he had expected. He had been unaware that anyone had even known he’d even liked Potter back at school. Or, more accurately, lusted after him. (In all of his teenage fantasies, they had fortuitously run into each other in some place like the Quidditch showers and had angry, hate sex and then never spoken again.)

And the fact that she had the gall to bring it up in front of Potter himself! Even if they are on a date. Or a fake date. Draco is no longer sure what this evening counts as. But either way, to Pansy’s eyes, this was a mission of Potter’s. Why would she bring it up? It is so Slytherin of her. 

He risks a glance at Potter. The brunet looks as though he is trying his hardest not to laugh. 

“Yeah? Well, you were dying to fuck Cormac McLaggen,” Draco snaps. Potter lets out the laugh he has so clearly been holding in. 

“That arsehole?” he asks. Pansy crosses her arms and stares daggers at Draco. Then she turns to Potter and says,

“Emphasis on the past tense, Potter. That _arsehole_ , as you so eloquently put it, tried to ask me out on the first week of Hit Wizard training. He was under the impression that as one of the only women on the squad, I would, of course, be panting to go out with any of my fellow Hit Wizards - you know, that being the only reason I joined up,” she pauses long enough to roll her eyes. “So I punched him in the face and broke his nose in front of the entire squad.” Potter grins. 

“Nice one,” he says. Pansy allows herself a small smile. 

“Yes, well, he’s still an arse and I still have to work with him, but I outrank him now.” She gives a small shrug of her shoulders as if to say that she is done talking about McLaggen. Draco is almost sorry that he brought it up, until he remembers what caused him to blurt it out in the first place. 

“So people routinely try to make you fall in love with them?” he asks Potter. The other man at least has the grace to look sheepish. 

“Yes,” he says. “It had stopped for a while because I was in a relationship.” He pauses, looking uncomfortable. “But, uh, that ended.” 

“So you’re concerned someone would try again now that you’re ‘back on the market’ so to speak?” Pansy asks. Potter nods. Pansy frowns at him and chews her lip thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of crazier things. It would explain why someone had a tracker on _your_ house and not Draco’s. Although, I haven’t checked Draco’s.”

“It’s clean,” Potter says. 

“You spied on my house?” Draco asks. For some reason this, more than anything else, is what feels most like a betrayal. 

“It’s my job,” Potter says quickly, but he looks flustered. 

“And yet you don’t check you own wards?” Pansy asks slowly. Draco is grateful that she is there to voice the questions he wants to, but wouldn’t dare ask. He looks sideways at Potter whose mouth is now a tight line. Potter takes a deep breath in through his nose. 

“I checked them this morning,” he says, his shoulders tense, his eyes blazing. “I should have checked them the moment we walked in the door, but I was a little distracted. You know, making sure that Malfoy was alright.” Pansy nods, lips pursed. 

“Still sloppy,” she mutters, looking away. 

“I _know_ ,” Potter spits out. He takes a pair of deep breaths. “But now it seems we’re stuck with it until the morning.”

“Why the morning?” Draco asks. 

“Well, if someone _is_ watching,” Pansy says. “It might seem odd that their spell has been discovered so long after you both arrived. I imagine the general public is unaware that Agent Potter is in fact an Unspeakable and so would not expect him to be overly paranoid.”

“Just normal paranoid?” Draco asks. 

“Yes,” she continues. “They might think he would notice the spell when he relaxed his wards upon arriving home, but since that moment has passed, I’m sure whomever cast it is pleased that it has slipped past his notice.” Draco frowns. On the one hand he thinks this makes sense, but on the other hand, he thinks the pair of them are far too paranoid with all their second guessing. 

But then, Draco is not a spy. For all he knows, this is how all spies think. He makes a mental note to double check his wards when he gets home If they ever let him _go_ home. And then, suddenly, going home is all he wants to do.

“I think you’re both being ridiculous,” he says. He is feeling emboldened by the whisky. “I will not be staying. You can come and take me to the Ministry in the morning if you must.” He puts his glass down decisively on the side table and tries to stand but is impeded by both the soft sofa cushions and his not insignificant level of intoxication. Potter puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down. 

“You will be staying,” he says firmly. 

“And you will be staying in his bed,” Pansy adds. Draco shakes his head.

“I told you,” Draco protests. “Not on the first date.” Pansy snorts in amusement and Draco allows himself to be pushed back into the couch cushions. He crosses his arms and scowls at both of them. 

“You’ll be safest there,” Pansy says. “And it has the bonus of adding legitimacy to your date if that is in fact what the heat tracking spell is for.” 

“But then what are you here for? What does the heat tracking spell say about you?”

“That I came by for a drink and then fell asleep on your couch.” 

“In which case,” Potter says. “Would you like a drink?” Pansy reaches up and scratches her head, nestling back further in her chair. 

“Fuck it,” she says. “What do you have?” 

…

Part of Pansy thinks she should not have a drink, but a much larger part of her thinks she's had a bitch of a night and that she deserves it. She’s checked Potter’s wards. They’re solid and she’s added a few of her own. Did she make up the heat tracking spell to fuck with Draco? Maybe. But they weren’t so uncommon that Potter wouldn’t have known what to do about it. It was just an added bonus that Potter’s clearly had kidnapping threats before, which makes him just that added touch more paranoid. Plus, after the McLaggen comment, Draco had _earned_ being fucked with.

She was curious to know who Potter had been dating so recently before he’d asked Draco out, but she is not about to ask. It is none of her business. She does not subscribe to any of those Witch Weekly magazines, but she’ll flick through one if there’s a copy at the hairdresser. She seems to recall that he had dated the female Weasley right out of school, but he has mostly stayed clear of the gossip pages since then. She is actually almost amazed that she cannot name who the most famous wizard in the world is dating. Grudgingly, she finds has a new modicum of respect for Potter. 

It still does not explain how he ended up as an Unspeakable though. She would love to pick Croaker’s brain on that decision, but it is not her place. She has never heard Dempsey, nor any of the other higher ups, complain about his work, so he must hide his goings on from the public somehow. Or perhaps he uses his celebrity to get into places that might be otherwise off limits to the public. Either way, that is none of her concern at the moment. 

“Whisky, vodka, gin, tequila.” Potter breaks into her thoughts by listing off the contents of his bar. 

“Whatever he's having,” she says, pointing to Draco. Potter nods and brings over a glass. He picks up the bottle of whisky that is sitting on the coffee table in front of them and pours her a large splash. “Ta.” She takes a sip and nods appreciatively. Potter has good taste. 

They sit in silence for a while, each of them lost in their thoughts and their whisky glasses. Finally Pansy asks,

“Did you know the Reliquary was from him?” Draco blinks and frowns at her. “Did you know it was from Wood?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. 

“How?” Draco says nothing just points to the watch on his wrist. “How did you know that was his?” She watches as a flush creeps up his face. He takes a deep breath. 

“We dated,” he says, so quietly that Pansy almost doesn’t hear it. 

“So you were in on it?” She sits up straighter and her hand inches towards her wand holster. Draco shakes his head. 

“That was years ago. I hadn’t heard from him in,” he pauses, a small frown on his face. “Well, since he quit United.” Pansy nods. She remembers that it was quite the news story several years ago. 

“So why did you read it then?” she asks. Draco shrugs. 

“It was a book,” he says by way of explanation. And Pansy understands, because he’s Draco and _of course_ he would read it. He loves books. The number of times she had roused him at the end of the evening in the Slytherin Common Room because he had fallen asleep in front of the fire reading. An unexpected feeling of warmth blossoms in her chest. She had forgotten how fond of the idiot she was. Or, had been, before sixth year. 

“Right, yes. Draco and books,” she says. “How could I forget?” Potter perks up at this. 

“Draco was secretly a nerd?” he asks, glee obvious in his tone. Pansy narrows her eyes at the brunet. 

“Potter,” she says. “You were best friends with Granger. How do you get off calling people nerds?” Potter at least has the grace to look ashamed. 

“Fair point,” he concedes. “But then why were you so mean to her in school?” Pansy stifles a laugh. Is Potter really that dense?

“Because she was smarter than he was,” she says. Draco frowns at her, but she knows she is right. 

“My father used to give me a hard time about it,” he mutters, crossing his arms and glowering at the coffee table. 

“You still got better grades than Potter,” she points out. 

“Like that was hard,” Draco says and now it’s Potter’s turn to get offended, which he predictably does, scowling at the both of them and muttering something that Pansy can’t catch. 

“What’s Granger up to these days anyway?” Draco asks, changing the subject. 

“She’s the Deputy Head of our department,” Pansy says.

“The whole department,” Potter adds. “Which means she's in charge of both of us.” He looks less thrilled with this than Pansy would have expected. 

“I see,” Draco says. He leans forward, reaching for the whisky bottle before he seemingly changes his mind and instead slumps back into the sofa cushions. He places his empty glass on the side table and then reaches up to massage his temples. 

“You look tired,” Pansy says. Draco drops his hands back into his lap. 

“I _am_ tired,” he says. “I was up most of the night reading that damn book.” Pansy arches an eyebrow at him. “Trust me, if I could have stopped reading, I would have. But it wouldn’t let me stop until I had read the whole thing.” Pansy rolls her eyes at him. She still can’t believe he is the person who has read The Reliquary. Not for the first that day time she wishes that she had gotten to Wood faster. She takes a large swig of her whisky as the image of his face, wand flashing at his temple, crosses her mind. Fuck. And it turns out Draco had dated him.

“Perhaps we should go to bed then,” Potter says. Draco turns to look at him. “And I swear I just mean bed.” But Pansy can see that Draco is too tired to even contemplate any sort of witty response. Instead, the blond just nods and starts to drag himself upright.

“G’night, Pans’,” Draco all but slurs at her. 

“Are you sure you’re alright here?” Potter asks Pansy. “I have a spare bedroom downstairs if you’d prefer.” She nods and he reaches to put the whisky away. She puts a hand out to stop him. 

“Can you leave that?” she asks. He looks at her for a long moment before nodding and following Draco out of the sitting room. She bizarrely wants to apologize to Potter. She wants to tell him that Wood’s death wasn’t her fault, that he had been the one in the wrong, but she knows now is not the time. She knows they will have that fight at some point and it is part of the reason she wants some more whisky before she closes her eyes for the night.

As the sitting room door closes behind her, she suddenly feels incredibly alone. 

…

“So, uh, this is my bedroom,” Potter says, once he and Draco have made their way up the stairs. The bed is unmade, duvet spilling half onto the floor and a pile of pillows to the side. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Clearly.” But Draco is too tired to care. He frowns in annoyance that he does not have a toothbrush, nor any of his nightly face creams, but he supposes one night without them won’t be the end of the world. There is an ensuite bathroom and Potter gestures towards it.

Draco takes the hint and goes about getting ready for bed as best he can, using his wand and a clumsy teeth cleaning spell in place of his toothbrush. He can’t help but look around the bathroom as he washes his hands. It has clearly been a bathroom for two quite recently. There are two sets of toiletries at the two sinks. And again, Draco feels oddly betrayed. 

Potter had said he was newly single, but Draco hadn’t expected it to be this recent. But then, their date wasn’t real. Or it was real in that they had kissed, but it wasn’t in that Potter had asked him out under false pretenses. He doesn’t know where he stands with the brunet at this point. And right now, it doesn’t fucking matter anyway because Pansy is downstairs. She was always _so good_ at cockblocking. 

Draco splashes water on his face in lieu of washing it properly and picks up a towel to dry off. This towel most definitely has someone’s cologne on it. But it is not the spicy sweetness of Potter’s cologne. No, this scent tickles his memory and makes his stomach lurch. He lowers the towel and lifts Oliver’s watch to his nose. And his heart sinks. 

He tries to tell himself that many people probably use this brand of cologne, that it could be anyone. But somehow he knows it was Oliver. And suddenly Potter’s motives seem all too clear. 

He throws the towel down into the sink and storms back out into the bedroom. Potter looks up in surprise from where he is lounging on the bed. 

“Oliver Wood was the boyfriend who just broke up with you?” He does not raise his voice because he doesn’t want Pansy to hear, but he makes sure to sound angry nonetheless, his voice barely above a hiss. Potter gapes at him, blinking rapidly. 

“How?” he splutters. Draco stalks back into the bathroom, picks up the towel and then flings it at Potter. 

“This,” he spits. “You haven’t even done the fucking laundry yet. His towels still smell like him, you arsehole.” 

“You still remember what he smells like?” Potter seems genuinely surprised. Draco’s shoulders slump as the fight goes out of him. He nods. “After all this time?”

“Yes, after all this fucking time.” There is a bench at the end of the bed, onto which Potter has moved the spare pillows. Draco sinks down onto it, spilling pillows onto the floor. 

“Oh,” is all that Potter says. Draco pulls his knees up onto the bench and wraps his arms around them.

“So, the only reason you asked me out was to figure out why he didn't send that damn book to you.” 

“Malfoy, I told you that. It’s my job to-”

“-But it was more than that. Wasn’t it?” He turns to glare at Potter, his eyes filling with tears which he angrily blinks away. He should not be this upset, but he has had far too much to drink this evening and his emotions are fried, what with Oliver’s watch reminding him anew that they’re no longer together. And that they haven’t been for years. He is no longer sure why he put it on this morning. It was stupid. 

“No,” Potter says softly. “Oliver.” He pauses for a long moment. “Oliver is gone.”

“And I’m what? A rebound who happens to conveniently be part of your case?”

“No.” 

“Stop fucking lying to me.” Potter sighs deeply and then swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. He walks over to where Draco is sitting and sits down beside him. He tries to take Draco’s hand, but Draco snatches it away. 

“OK, fine. You want the truth?” Draco nods. “The truth is, I don't know what’s going on. Did I ask you out as part of my mission to find The Reliquary? Yes. Am I newly single and do we share the same ex-boyfriend? Also yes. But I swear to god that has nothing to do with how I’m feeling now. Which, granted, is conflicted. I like you and would like to keep seeing you, rebound, or mission be damned. But I can’t. You're an asset now, or at least, I’m pretty sure you will be once we take you in tomorrow. And someone else will be assigned as your handler and I won’t be able to see you any more. Perhaps I leapt at the opportunity to ask you out because I was recently heartbroken. I don’t know. Either way, here we are.” Draco blinks slowly at Potter, trying to untangle everything he just said. 

“Are all your relationships this complicated, Potter?” Draco asks. Potter gives a sharp bark of unamused laughter. 

“No, but you’ve always been special.”

“Special?”

“Especially annoying.” Draco twists his mouth in disbelief and narrows his eyes at Potter. 

“Sure.” And then before Draco can say anything else, Potter’s mouth crashes into his. As his lips part in surprise, he feels Potter’s tongue slip inside and he tentatively reaches out with his own tongue to meet it. But then Potter’s tongue slides away to run along the inside of Draco’s upper lip and Draco gasps at how lovely that feels. And then, just as Draco is starting to get into the kiss, Potter pulls away. 

“No,”he says. “Sorry. I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

“Because of Oliver?”

“No, because it’s unprofessional. You’re an asset and-”

“-And you made it sound like this could never happen again.”

“Exactly,” Potter seems relieved that Draco understands what he is trying to say. 

“So, you're saying that we should take advantage of now, before we run out of chances?” Draco is rewarded by Potter’s eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“Uh,” he says. Draco smirks at him. 

“I was lying earlier,” he says. Confusion fills Potter’s eyes. 

“About what?”

“I was lying when I said that I don't fuck on the first date.” Potter’s mouth falls open in a small o and Draco takes advantage of this, tangling his fingers into Potter’s messy hair and pulling him back into a kiss. If tonight is going to be his only opportunity for any of his teenage fantasies to come true, he sure as fuck is not going to waste the chance. Rebound or not, mission or not, he wants Potter in his bed, just this once. In fact, even more so since it can only be this once - there won't be any messy relationship to deal with later. It will be just like his teenage fantasies: they'll sleep together and then never speak again. 

Potter, after a moment’s hesitation, reciprocates. And soon Draco feels insistent hands pawing at his shirt buttons. He reaches up and undoes the top few before pulling the shirt over his head in one swift movement. Potter blinks in surprise and Draco takes that moment to take him by the hand and lead him to the bed. He blushes as he watches Potter’s eyes sweep over his naked torso and he tries to fight off his self consciousness. He lifts his arms and tries to disrobe Potter to give himself something to do with his hands, but the other man bats him away. Draco frowns then watches with comprehension as Potter quickly unhooks each button with surprising adroitness. 

“‘S faster,” Potter mutters before dropping the shirt to the floor. He grabs at Draco’s waist and pulls them back together again. And then they are falling on the bed, pressing hard against each other. Draco throws his head back as Potter trails a line of kisses down his neck, his mouth hot against Draco’s skin. And it is everything that he could have imagined and more. He wants to just drink this moment in. 

Potter’s hands are roaming over his chest, slowly inching their way downwards so Draco decides to take charge of the situation, reaching down swiftly to deal with Potter’s belt buckle. He hears Potter’s sharp intake of breath and Draco’s pulse, which was already racing, picks up even more. Potter’s hips buck against his and he can feel Potter’s arousal through the linen of his trousers. 

_Fuck it_ , he thinks and undoes the top button of Potter’s trousers. Potter turns his head and gently nibbles Draco’s earlobe. And Circe, Draco didn’t know that could feel so good. Clearly, living out one’s teenage fantasies is something he should have done years ago. 

He fumbles Potter’s trousers down to his thighs and Potter takes the opportunity to bite down hard on Draco’s shoulder. Draco hisses in surprise and pulls back. And then he feels Potter’s hands on his own waistband, fumbling with the clasp. In a moment, his trousers are down too, and then the only thing separating the two of them is the thin fabric of their underwear. Draco’s whole body is heady with anticipation and he knows he won’t last long once things really get going. 

He weaves the fingers of his right hand back into Potter’s hair and pulls their mouths back together and then reaches down the back of Potter’s underwear with his other hand. And then, before he can quite comprehend what is happening, his boxers are around his knees and Potter’s hand is on him and he is crying out in pleasure and spending himself all over Potter’s stomach. 

“Fuck,” he says, pressing his forehead into Potter’s shoulder. “Sorry.” Potter lifts his face up by his chin until they are staring each other in the eye. 

“It’s fine,” he says and kisses Draco again. Draco pulls away. 

“I should clean that up,” he stammers. Potter shakes his head and holds his arm out. His wand flies into his hand and he waves it over the two of them, cleaning them with a quietly muttered charm. Then he smiles and cups Draco’s head in his hands and goes right back to kissing him. And Draco realizes that he’s not going to get much sleep that night and Merlin is that alright with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is so terribly late. My beta reader has been so busy that I gave up waiting in the end. So if there are huge glaring errors, you can blame me.


	7. Draco Versus The Daily Prophet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is ridiculously late and I am so sorry about that. I was busy writing and throwing a Harry Potter Murder Mystery party and that took ALL of my time. It was worth the effort though :)  
> If anyone is curious about it, please feel free to DM me. I'm trying to put together a share-able copy.

Harry is awoken by a loud pounding on his bedroom door. He groans as the sound manifests itself as a headache. He blinks slowly. His eyes feel like they have been glued together and his mouth is dry. He shuts his eyes again and rolls over to wrap an arm around Oliver.

And then the memories of the night before crash into his brain and he realizes that it’s not Oliver that he is clutching at, but Draco Malfoy. He freezes as Malfoy shifts under his touch. Part of him can’t quite believe that they slept together and the other part of him thinks that it has been coming since they both left Hogwarts. Maybe.

Either way, he has a naked Draco Malfoy in his bed and an unknown person banging on his door. _No_ , he thinks, _not unknown. That’s Parkinson._

And suddenly he is heart-poundingly wide awake. If Parkinson opens the door and finds them like this, Harry won’t hear the end of it. In fact, he could quite possibly lose his job.

He disentangles himself from Malfoy and covers the blond up. Then he grabs his bathrobe from behind the door and wraps it around himself before cracking open the door. As expected, Major Parkinson stands outside. She is tapping her foot in irritation.

“What?” he demands, keeping his voice to a whisper.

“It’s nine thirty.”

“And? It’s a Sunday.”

“And everyone is waiting on us to bring in the Reliquary.” Harry’s shoulders slump. What he would do for another couple of hours of sleep. Then he straightens and nods.

“Right,” he says. “Yes. Give us about twenty minutes and we’ll meet you downstairs.” Parkinson raises an eyebrow at him and Harry wonders if all Slytherins have natural eyebrow raising abilities.

“If it’s Draco, it's going to be at least an hour.” She turns away. “In the meantime, I’m going to raid your kitchen for coffee,” she says as she starts down the stairs.

“Sounds good,” Harry says to her retreating back. She waves a hand of thanks at him and then turns the corner of the stairs. As she does, Harry wonders if he will ever understand her. He doubts it. Not that he necessarily needs to, them being on different teams and all. He shakes his head and then closes the bedroom door. He turns back to the bed and stares at the still naked Draco Malfoy who is asleep there. Fuck, but last night should not have happened.

He walks tentatively over to Malfoy’s side of the bed and puts a hand on the blond’s shoulder. He does not stir, so Harry begins to gently shake it. He gets a slap in the face for his efforts.

“Ow,” he cries, leaping backward and putting a hand to his cheek.

“Fuck off, Greg,” Malfoy mutters, not opening his eyes.

“I am _not_ Greg,” Harry says. Malfoy cracks one eye open. A frown crosses his face.

“Potter?” he croaks. Harry puts on what he hopes is a winning smile.

“Hi,” he says.

“What the fuck are-” and then Malfoy pauses and Harry knows that he is now suddenly recalling last night too. Malfoy frowns, squeezing his eyes shut and then he opens both of them. He shifts around in the bed until he is half sitting, propped up on his elbows. He fixes Harry with an intense stare. “Did we fuck last night?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

“Then that wasn’t a dream.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“And we really…?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Yes, it was more than once.” He can't keep a smile off of his face as he says this.

“And you’re waking me up at this ungodly hour because?”

“Parkinson says we need to go into the Ministry.” Malfoy groans and collapses back onto the pillow, shutting his eyes again. Harry reaches out and gently prods him. Malfoy feebly swats him away.

“Go away,” he says, covering his eyes with his forearm.

“No,” Harry says firmly. “You need to get up. Or do you want Parkinson walking in and finding you naked in my bed?” Malfoy lays still for a moment before he lowers his arm and shakes his head.

“She probably already has a pretty good idea of what went on. You’re not exactly quiet, Potter.”

“The room is quite well soundproofed I’ll have you know.”

“Oh, now you tell me,” Malfoy snaps. He sits up, making sure to keep the sheets across his lap.

“That was you trying to be quiet?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement. Malfoy glares at him.

“Fuck you, Potter,” he mutters.

“I believe you already did.” As much as common sense would tell Harry to stop flirting at this point as nothing good can come of it, he finds he can’t help himself. Last night was better than he would have thought possible. And the fact that Malfoy hasn’t now cursed him from here to next Sunday seems like a good indication that he had enjoyed it too. If only Malfoy hadn’t read that damn book, Harry could convince himself that perhaps they could have made this work. But there is no sense dwelling on that now.

“You know, you’re not as funny as you think you are, Potter,” Malfoy says, still glaring at him. Harry shrugs.

“I’m going to go shower,” he says. “Don’t go back to sleep in the meantime. I don't want to keep Parkinson waiting.” Malfoy crosses his arms in front of his chest and keeps up his glare. It is effective, and Harry walks awkwardly over the bathroom, somehow feeling like a stranger in his own home.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him and releases the tension he had not realized he was carrying in his shoulders. He is not sure why Malfoy still makes him so nervous but he sure as hell does. He sighs and shrugs out of his bathrobe. He turns on the shower and brushes his teeth while he waits for the shower to warm up.

The water feels amazing as he steps under it. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth wash over him. He stands that way for a long moment, replaying memories from the night before in his minds eye. He can’t believe he let himself get carried away like that. But at the same time, he doesn’t regret it.

He hears the squeak of a door hinge and he hurriedly wipes water out of his eyes. Malfoy’s face peers around the gap of the open door, and then he pushes it fully open. Harry instinctively grabs a washcloth to cover himself. He stares, bug eyed, as Malfoy walks into the bathroom as naked as the day he was born.

“What?” he splutters. “What are you doing?” Malfoy shrugs, opens the shower door and steps inside.

“I wanted to see what you were like when we weren't drunk,” he says. He takes a step towards Harry and Harry’s breath catches in his throat. Malfoy’s hair is a disheveled halo, sticking up in all directions from his head. His grey eyes bore into Harry’s as he takes another step towards him. The sensible part of Harry’s brain is screaming that he should put a stop to this before it gets any further, but he ignores it. He knows he might regret this later, but right now he just doesn’t care.

He stays under the shower stream, but he lets the washcloth drop and fact that he is excited to see Malfoy becomes abundantly clear. The corner of Malfoy’s mouth quirks up into a smirk. He stands, just staring at Harry, for a long moment, before he steps even closer. He is within arm’s reach now, but Harry is going to stand his ground and make the blond come to him. Malfoy, perhaps sensing this, finally closes the distance between them, reaching out and pulling Harry against himself.

“Hi,” he says quietly, his nose inches from Harry’s. He has water drops on his eyelashes from the spray of the shower. He looks vaguely angelic, save for the devilish smirk of his mouth.

“Hello,” Harry replies. He leans forward and presses their noses together, still keeping eye contact.

“Mm, you’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?” Malfoy asks. Harry smiles mischievously and nods. In response, Malfoy wraps his arms tighter around Harry and pulls them more tightly together. When Harry’s mouth falls open in surprise, Malfoy takes the opportunity to finally kiss him.

…

Finding Draco’s clothes after they finish showering is a slight challenge, which is not helped by the fact that Draco is still a bit sex dazed after their shower activities. He finds his underwear under the bed and his socks tangled in the duvet. And everything is wrinkled from having been tossed distractedly to the floor.

However, this isn't Draco's first rodeo and he knows all the spells for wrinkle release and beyond. Within minutes, he looks put together, even if he feels like he should look a mess given his nighttime activities.

As he looks at himself in the mirror, he notices a bruise on the side of his neck. It's clearly Potter’s handiwork. He scowls at his reflection, though a small part of him thrills at the sight. However, it won't do to go to the Ministry with Potter’s mark on him, so he raises his wand and hides the blemish.

He nods to Potter as he walks back into the bedroom, a small smirk crossing his face as he catches Potter’s eye. The brunet flushes and Draco's smile grows wider. He knows he is going to replay the memories from his time with for the next few months while he jerks himself off - once he’s inevitably alone again.

The smell of coffee reaches his nose as Potter opens the door to the bedroom. Zombie-like, Draco follows his nose down two floors to the kitchen. There, he finds Pansy and a fresh pot of coffee. He watches as her eyes rake his body and he fights the urge to blush.

“Morning,” he says, nodding at her.

“Hi,” she says. “How’d you sleep?” Is it his imagination, or is there a small smirk on her face? He decides to act as if there isn't.

“Oh, fine,” he replies. “Yourself?” She shrugs.

“As well as can be expected.”

“In all fairness, I did offer you a bed,” Potter says, following Draco down the stairs.

“I actually accepted said offer,” Pansy says. She points to a door off of the dining room. “The sheets are in the wash.”

“Oh good. I’m glad you found the spare room.”

“I’m glad she found the coffee,” Draco says. He crosses the room to the coffee pot and reaches for it before realizing he doesn’t know where any of the glassware is. Potter notices his hesitation and raises his wand. A cupboard to Draco’s right opens and two mugs fly out of it, landing with a soft clink on the counter next to the coffee. “Cheers.” Draco pours two full mugs and carries one over to Potter who accepts it gratefully.

“Thanks.” Potter takes a large sip of the steaming liquid, only grimacing slightly at the heat. He sighs. “That’s better. Now, does anyone want breakfast?” Draco looks over at Pansy who checks her watch.

“I don’t know if we have the time,” she says. “I imagine Draco wants to change before we take him in.”

“I think there’s time for some toast,” Potter protests. As Pansy opens her mouth to respond, he waves his wand again and six pieces of bread fly out from the breadbox and deposit themselves in the toaster oven, which dings to announce that it is on.

Pansy narrows her eyes at Potter but says nothing. Draco wants nothing to do with this strange power struggle and so quietly walks over to the dining room table and sits down. He puts his coffee down and leans over it, letting the scent wake him up as much as the coffee itself. 

All things considered, he feels quite well rested. Or at the very least, he is not as tired as he was the day before, even though he didn’t get all that much sleep. More than anything else, he feels hungover, although the shower did help with those feelings a bit. Potter must notice this, because a hangover potion lands in front of him a moment later. He looks up. Both Potter and Pansy are holding similar potions, which makes him feel a bit better, although he hadn’t thought Pansy’d had that much to drink. Potter raises his potion in a toast. Draco picks his up, motions clinking in the air and then downs the liquid in one. Then he takes a quick sip of his coffee to get the bitter aftertaste out of his mouth. He shudders and makes a disgusted face.

“Circe,” Pansy mutters, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. “You’d have thought they would have been able to come up with a better flavor by now.”

“Oh well,” Draco says. He closes his eyes as the feeling of warmth starts in his chest and then spreads over his body. The faint feeling of nausea dissipates and his headache leaves him. He takes a deep breath and marvels at how much better he feels. It’s been several years since Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes came out with the potions, and every time he has one, he is amazed at how well and how fast they work.

Just as he feels the warmth of the potion reach his fingertips, the toaster oven dings to indicate that the toast is done. He looks up to see Potter wave his wand again. Plates and cutlery fly around the kitchen. The fridge opens and the butter flies out, presumably to be applied to the toast, although Draco cannot see where it goes. A moment later, a plate with two pieces of toast lands in front of him. Pansy still looks a little annoyed that Potter has bothered with any sort of breakfast, but as a plate hovers in front of her, she accepts it with grace.

They join him at the table and start to discuss the logistics of bringing him into the Ministry. Draco has, of course, been in the Ministry of Magic before, so he’s well aware of how to get there and thus tunes them out while he crunches on his toast. While he wouldn’t have argued with Pansy about having breakfast, he is most definitely glad that he has it. The toast and the hangover potion are doing wonders on his mood. He feels positively happy, even while Pansy and Potter discuss what they think might happen to him in the Ministry. He knows part of is good mood is to do with all the sex they had last night and now that he has a bit less vertigo, he thinks back to the night before in earnest.

He is brought back to the present as his two breakfast companions turn to stare at him.

“What?” he asks through a mouthful of toast.

“Did you want to go home and change?” Pansy asks him, clearly annoyed at having to repeat herself. Draco swallows down the toast and nods.

“Please,” he says.

“Right, then that decides it,” Potter says. “I will escort Malfoy back to his house. Parkinson, we’ll meet you at the external entrance to the ministry once you’ve showered and changed.” Pansy nods once and then shoves altogether too much toast into her mouth before she shoves her chair back from the table and stands. She gives them both a small wave and then walks over to the fireplace behind Draco. She grabs a handful of Floo powder from where it sits on the mantlepiece and drops it into the grate. A green fire flares up, and she steps into it, saying her address so quietly that Draco can’t catch it, even though he is only a few feet away.

And then they are alone again.

Potter seems to relax more once Pansy’s spinning form has disappeared. He leans back in his chair and stretches, yawning as his arms reach high above his head.

“Mm,” he says. “I could have done with a bit more sleep.” He catches Draco’s eye and grins.

“Sorry,” Draco says.

“Don’t be. You’re not the reason I couldn’t sleep in. Parkinson is. Who gets up at nine on a Sunday?” Draco does not want to point out that often he gets up at nine on a Sunday. He is worried it will make it sound like he has no social life. That is not the case, it’s just that his bodyseems to wake him with the sun, whether or not he’s done sleeping.

“Well, then I’m not sorry,” he says instead.

“Good.”

Silence falls as Draco turns his attention to his toast, not wanting to talk more about the night before. What would be the point? He finishes his toast and instead focuses on coffee. It is black, which is not how he prefers it, but he had not wanted to ask Potter where the milk and the sugar were and so has resigned himself to the bitterness.

Once Potter finishes his own toast, he waves his wand to send the plates to the sink. Then he turns to Draco.

“Ready?” he asks. Draco takes one last look around the kitchen and then nods.

“How are we getting there?” Draco asks. “Our Floo is set to Family Only.” Potter has the nerve to look mockingly hurt.

“You mean, you didn’t add me the moment I came over?” he asks, a smirk on his face.

“We don’t really use the Floo,” Draco snaps, more irritated by Potter’s teasing than he should be. Perhaps because it reminds him that this was just one night (and a shower) and that it won’t happen again. “But I’ve let you in the wards, so we can probably apparate. If you give me some paper, I’ll write down the coordinates.”

…

The house is quiet when they arrive. Greg is either asleep or out, and Draco can’t tell which. It feels decidedly odd arriving on the landing with Potter. He had done it so many times with Oliver, that for half a second, his body expected to see his sandy blond hair when Draco turned his head towards the person beside him.

“Uh, welcome back to my house,” he says. “This is my floor.” And then he feels really stuck up saying it. Because while it’s true that the entire floor is his, it shouldn’t entirely count as a floor. Perhaps he should have said this tower was his, because that _is_ more what it feels like. His little tower.

Potter doesn’t say anything, just looks around, his hands clasped politely behind his back. Draco frowns at him and then gestures for him to go into the bedroom.

“Here,” he says, gesturing to the armchair in the corner of the room. “Sit here while I get dressed.” Potter nods and makes his way over to the armchair. But he does not sit. Instead, he turns and looks at Draco’s bookshelves, turning his head slightly to read some of the titles. Draco watches him for a moment before walking back out into the landing where his closet is.

He pulls out a pair of jeans and a tee shirt before he stops himself. He looks at them and decides he should look more put together if he is going to be brought into the Ministry. So he stuffs the jeans back in their place and pulls out a pair of navy trousers and a white button down shirt. He starts to unbuckle his belt in the landing, the way he normally would, but again he stops himself. Instead, he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. He knows that Potter has seen him naked several times in the last twelve hours, but changing somehow feels different.

Once he is done, he stares at his reflection in the mirror. He has dark circles under his eyes from the past few nights of little sleep, and his hair is uncharacteristically unruly. The hair he can fix though. He rummages in his vanity and pulls out a comb and some hair gel. He fiddles with his hair until he is satisfied and then, as an afterthought, brushes his teeth. Then he nods once at his reflection and walks out of the bathroom, leaving yesterday’s clothes a pile on the floor.

He finds Potter sitting in the armchair, flipping through a Muggle fiction book that Draco had picked up the last time he was in Chelsea. He stands awkwardly for a moment, willing Potter to look up of his own accord, before coughing quietly. Potter looks up. A smile crosses his face.

“Don’t you clean up nicely,” he says. He puts his hands on the chairs arms and pushes himself exuberantly into a standing position.

“Shall we?” he asks. His tone is the opposite of how Draco feels, bright and carefree, and not like he is potentially leading Draco to be interrogated and locked up.

“Sure,” Draco says. He leads the way downstairs.

…

As they pass through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry looks around them. He almost stops walking as he sees a man reading the Daily Prophet. Oliver’s face blinks serenely back at him from the front page, under a headline of “Reclusive Ex-Keeper Found Dead”. Seeing it that way feels like a punch to the stomach. He takes a deep breath and then notices that Malfoy has stopped walking. He turns to look at the blond.

Malfoy looks like he has just been slapped. He blinks rapidly. Harry feels a shot of guilt as he sees pain flash through Malfoy’s eyes. Not for the first time in the last twenty four hours, Harry wonders if Malfoy has seriously dated anyone since Oliver.

It feels unfair that he should find out this way. Harry had at least been able to deal with his shock in private. He had been able to spend most of that first night crying into Oliver’s pillow, inhaling his scent and attempting to commit it to memory before it faded for good. He wonders if he should somehow have brought this up the night before. But then he thinks, should he have brought it up before or after they’d taken all their clothes off? He blushes as his traitorous mind goes straight to the memory of how Malfoy’s mouth felt around his dick. But now is quite definitely not the time for these thoughts, so he pushes the memory quickly away. 

He reaches out and puts a hand on Malfoy’s arm. They have both stopped walking now and are just standing in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry looks up as the woman behind the bar hurries over to them. He realizes it is Hannah Abbott and starts to raise his hand in hello. But Hannah only has eyes for Malfoy.

“Draco,” she says as she reaches them. She reaches out and takes Malfoy’s hands in hers. “Oh, Draco, honey, are you okay?” Malfoy is still staring at the front page of the Prophet. Hannah looks behind her, over at the man who is holding the newspaper. She gently leads Malfoy to a table and makes him sit down.

“Let me get you some coffee,” she says.

“With some firewhisky,” Malfoy mutters. Hannah meets Harry’s eyes at this point and he shrugs in acquiescence. She hurries away and Harry sits down opposite Malfoy.

“Tell me you didn’t know,” Malfoy says, his eyes boring into Harry’s. Harry sighs and looks away.

“I can’t.”

“You fucking knew and you didn't tell me?” Malfoy’s voice is an angry hiss.

“It was classified Ministry-”

“-Oh save me the sanctimonious bullshit, Potter. You didn't tell me because you were thinking with your dick.” Harry says nothing, but presses his mouth into a thin line. Malfoy is right, of course, but Harry is not about to admit it. Malfoy glares at him again and then crosses his arms and slumps back into his chair, all the fight going out of him. Harry takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have told you. I should have found a way to bring it up.” He takes another deep breath. “And I should have done it before we took our clothes off.”

“You took your clothes off?” Hannah Abbott asks, interrupting them with both her question and a steaming mug of coffee. Harry can smell the firewhisky from where he is sitting.

Hannah sits down next to Malfoy and nudges him with her elbow.

“You and him, then?” she asks. She looks up briefly and catches Harry’s eye, her lips pressed into a tight line, as if to say she’s putting on a good show to try to make things a bit better for Malfoy.The blond gives a small nod. Hannah turns her head to look at Harry again, who feels himself blush crimson. “So what are you mooning over Wood for?”

“Hannah,” Malfoy protests. “He was a big part of my life for almost a year, and now he’s fucking dead.”

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m being terribly insensitive but I still haven't forgotten how he hurt you. And I haven't forgiven him for that.” She reaches out an arm and wraps it around Malfoy’s shoulder, squeezing him hard against her. Then she leans in and continues more quietly. “Andin all fairness, you haven’t seen Wood in _years_ and Potter’s a pretty great catch.” Malfoy turns his head and frowns at her.

“Hannah,” he whispers. “Potter can hear you.”

“I can hear you too, Malfoy” Harry points out.

“And it’s more complicated than that,” Malfoy continues in a normal tone, ignoring Harry. Hannah gives Malfoy’s shoulder a squeeze before she takes her arm back and shrugs. “There are things I haven't told you.”

There is a ding from the bar behind them as a patron presses the small bell next to the register.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me about it in time,” Hannah says. “But I need to get back to work. It’s not that I don’t care, Draco. Because I do care, terribly. It’s just that my job is calling.” She glances over at the bar, where sure enough, a small line has now begun to form. “Take good care of him,” she says to Harry. He nods dumbly back. And then she is gone again.

Malfoy reaches over and takes his coffee mug. Lifting it to his mouth, he takes a large sip. He watches Harry over the lip of the mug, eyes narrowed, before putting it down on the table again.

“How did he die?” Malfoy asks. “And don’t you dare tell me it’s classified. I have a bunch of classified shit in my head right now. One more thing can hardly hurt.” Harry looks down at his thumbs and twiddles them. He was hoping this conversation would come later, preferably when someone else was around to explain it in Harry’s stead.

“It happened while stealing The Reliquary,” he says after a long moment. “He broke into a secure Ministry facility and died shortly after sending it to you. I don't actually know all the details. I didn't necessarily _want_ to know.” Harry breaks off, not wanting to continue. He is sure Malfoy knows why he doesn’t want to know more. After all, he threw Oliver’s towel at Harry last night. He knows Harry and Oliver were a couple, which, Harry realizes, might be more than anyone else knows. Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up and he lifts the coffee to his mouth again, hands shaking, to take another large gulp.

“No,” he says once he’s swallowed the mouthful. “No, that can’t be right. Oliver wouldn’t do something like that.” Harry’s lips are pursed again and he is frowning. Malfoy clearly understands from his expression that he’s being serious because he slumps back down in his chair again. “Fuck,” he says quietly. “Then why’d he send it to _me_?”

Harry’s mouth twists in concern, but he stays quiet. He does not want to say anything more on this topic until they reach the Ministry, where someone else can handle all of the questions. He looks down at his watch as it vibrates softly against his wrist. He pulls out his wand and prods it gently. He has a message from Parkinson.

_Where are you?_

He prods the watch again, changing it back to its normal clock face and he groans when he sees the time. They had been scheduled to meet Pansy ten minutes ago. He looks up at Malfoy and sees that the blond is watching him.

“We’re late,” Harry says, pointing at his watch. “We should go.” He stands up. Malfoy gives a small, resigned sigh. While the blond still seems upset, he appears to be at least less angry with Harry. He pushes his chair back, stands, then picks up the coffee for one last sip. Harry watches in amazement as the blond downs the rest of the liquid in one go before wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

“Fine,” he says. “But this conversation is not over.” He begins to stride purposefully towards the door of the Leaky Cauldon, forcing Harry to jog to catch up with him. When he does, Malfoy’s face is set in the hard look that Harry remembers so well from Hogwarts. He reaches out and puts a hand on Malfoy’s arm. Malfoy spins to face him.

“What?” he snaps.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. Malfoy shrugs his hand away.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.” He turns back towards the door and in a moment is through it. Harry adjusts his jacket collar and then follows.

…

Pansy glares at her watch. She curses herself for letting the pair of them out of her sight again, but the idea of going home, showering and changing her clothes had been too nice to pass up. But now they are late. Not that there is a definitive time that Dempsey wants them to be there, but it’s the principle of the thing. Pansy is never late to anything. In fact, she is usually scrupulously early.

She leans against the wall next to the Muggle telephone booth that is the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry. As much as she would have preferred to use the employee entrance, or better yet, have just apparated in, Draco is a civilian and Potter wouldn’t agree to bend the rules to take him in any other entrance than the public one.

She hears two soft pops, which are followed shortly by the sight of Potter walking around the nearest corner. A moment later, Draco follows. Even from this distance, Pansy can tell that Draco is upset. He is wearing his ‘everything is fine, leave me the fuck alone’ face, which generally means that things are not fine. She wonders what happened in the time that she left him alone with Potter.

“You’re late,” she says as they draw up next to her.

“I know,” Potter says. “Unforeseen circumstances.” They pile into the phone booth.

“Would these circumstances have anything to do with why Draco looks like he’s either going to cry or hit something?”

“I do not look like that,” Draco protests. He wriggles uncomfortably, wedged in between the two of them.

“Yes, you do,” Pansy says. She reaches a hand out and picks up the telephone receiver. She punches in 62442 and waits until the floor beneath them begins to move before replacing the phone in its cradle. She turns to face Draco, freeing up a small amount of space between them. She pokes him in the rib.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Draco turns his head and scowls at her.

“Nothing,” he says. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Draco. I know I haven’t seen you in a while, but if you’ll recall, there was a time when I was the one person who knew you better than either Greg or Vince.” She can tell by the way his scowl intensifies that she is right.

“He found out that Wood died,” Potter says over Draco’s shoulder. “And they had, ah, had a thing a few years ago.”

“Ah.” She’d seen the front page of the Prophet as she’d carried the paper into the kitchen while she had been briefly at home. She, too, had been startled by his serene face staring out at her. Because, even though Wood had been the one in the wrong - he _had_ been stealing Ministry property - she still felt guilty that he had died. If she had just been a second faster when attempting to disarm him… She pushes the thought away. Instead, she puts a hand on Draco’s arm and asks,

“Are you okay?” She watches as he takes a deep breath and slips his ‘everything is fine’ face back on.

“I’m fine,” he says in a small voice that transports her back to their fifth year, when they had still been best friends and Draco and Narcissa had come for dinner, shortly after Lucius had been locked up in Azkaban. And just like all those years ago, she wants to wrap her arms around him and hug the pain away. But just as back then, she does not. Because while that is what she would want, Draco is different. Instead, she squeezes his arm and sees the ghost of smile lift the corners of his lips.


	8. Draco Versus the New Job

Once they reach the Atrium of the Ministry, Pansy and Potter stare at each other. Neither of them are quite sure whose office to go to. Draco can tell from the way that they both sort of freeze once they reach the elevators. Potter even has his hand out to press the elevator call button, but is wavering between up and down. Draco decides to address the elephant in the room.

“So, whose boss do we take me to?” As soon as he asks, he knows his voice is too fake cheerful. He’s trying too hard to seem alright with everything that’s going on. Because he is sure as fuck _not_ alright with everything going on.

Oliver is dead. Draco’s got government secrets in his head. And he went and fucked Harry fucking Potter last night. (And this morning, his mind reminds him). He’s not a hundred percent sure he’s not being taken to his death or imprisonment right now. He could go on, but he’s sad and pissed off enough as is.

Neither Potter nor Pansy answer him. They are still staring at each other. Potter slowly brings his hand back to his side.

“I’m not sure,” he says.

“Well, can you hurry up and decide?” Draco asks. He just wants to get this over with before he loses his nerve and attempts to run away. He is decently sure he could give Potter the slip and escape. Pansy, not so much. She knows him too well, damn her.

“Let’s bring him to Croaker,” Potter says, at the same time that Pansy says.

“Let’s go see Dempsey.” In his exasperation, and still in an attempt to seem alright with things, Draco slaps a hand to his forehead.

“Let’s go with Potter’s suggestion,” he says. Pansy purses her lips but nods. Potter presses the down call button on the elevator.

Croaker’s office, it turns out, is in the absolute bowels of the Ministry. Draco is convinced that his ears pop they descend so many floors. He didn’t even know the Ministry _had_ that many floors below ground. He tries not to think about this as they wend their way through multiple corridors. He feels quite well and truly trapped. Now, even if he wanted to run away, he couldn’t. He wonders if he should have chosen to be taken to this Dempsey person instead. But it’s too late for second guessing, because as soon as he thinks he would rather going somewhere else, they’re there and knocking on Croaker’s door.

Saul Croaker is an older wizard, with thinning salt and pepper hair. His face sags somewhat at the jowls and his dark eyes are sunken. He is an odd combination of thin in the limbs with a large, rounded belly. Draco is not sure what to make of him until he starts talking. And then he thinks that he’s going to do whatever the man jolly well tells him to do because that voice all but demands it.

“Sit,” Croaker says as they enter the room. He gestures at the two chairs in front of his desk and they scramble for a minute to bring another chair for Pansy from the side of the room. Once they are seated, Croaker leans forward in his chair and surveys them above steepled fingers.

“Uh,” Potter starts to say, but Pansy interrupts him.

“Hello Director Croaker,” she says. “I would like to introduce you to Draco Malfoy. He’s the man to whom Oliver Wood sent the Reliquary.” Croaker’s gaze flicks from Draco to Pansy while she is speaking, and then back to Draco.

“I understand you’ve read the book.” It is not a question. Draco nods, feeling stupid. Again. With a sigh, Croaker leans back in his chair. “That is quite unfortunate,” he says. He pulls out his wand and Draco shrinks back in his chair. But Croaker just prods the watch on his wrist and then speaks into it.

“Amelia, he’s here. You should come and join us.” He holds it up to his ear and Draco thinks he can hear a small voice emanating from the watch. Whatever the voice says, it irritates Croaker because his face darkens. He lifts the watch to his mouth again.

“No, we’re not coming to you. They’re all here. Yes, Parkinson too.” The voice in the watch says one more thing before Croaker prods the device with a disgusted sigh. No one says anything for a long, tense minute. Then Potter says,

“Well, if you don’t need me, I might just head on home.” He begins to stand, but a quick glare from Croaker sends him back to his seat.

“Who the fuck said we didn’t need you, Potter?” Croaker asks, eyes narrowed.

“No one. I just assumed-” Potter starts to say.

“-Well, don’t. You’ll stay right there.” Potter nods and nervously crosses his legs. Draco is secretly pleased that Potter won’t be leaving him alone just yet.

As the minutes tick by, Draco becomes more and more nervous. Who is this Amelia person that they’re waiting on? He gnaws distractedly on a hangnail on his thumb before he realizes what he is doing and drops his hand back into his lap.

Finally, after what feels like an age, but is really only five minutes, they hear footsteps in the hallway. Draco turns around expectantly and watches as a woman in a Hit Wizard uniform marches towards them. She has so many stars above her crossed wand seal, that even Draco knows she is important. A small name tag identifies her as the Dempsey that Pansy had mentioned.

Pansy stands and salutes as the woman enters the room. The woman acknowledges her and motions for her to sit. Then she addresses Croaker.

“Saul,” she says. Croaker nods at her.

“Hello, Amelia.” He looks around the room for another chair. When he doesn’t find one, he conjures one for her and places it on his side of the desk. Draco notices that it is nicer than the chairs that the rest of them are sitting on.

“Thank you,” Amelia says. She walks over to the chair and perches on the end of it, her back ramrod straight. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pansy shift in her seat until she is mirroring the other woman.

“General Dempsey,” Pansy says. “This is Draco Malfoy.”

“Ah yes,” the General says. She smiles at Draco, although the smile does not quite reach her eyes. “Pansy has told me all about you and the Reliquary.” She purses her lips briefly. “It’s a pity that it’s gone, but that can’t be helped now, can it?” She gives a small sigh. Despite the fact that she is being nicer to Draco than Croaker is, he doesn’t feel any more comfortable. In fact, he’s almost more intimidated by Dempsey, because he can’t get a good read on her emotions.

“Um, sorry about that,” Draco says. “I didn’t know what I was reading.”

“And once you started, you couldn’t stop?” Draco nods and Dempsey sighs again. “That was quite the design flaw.”

“But now that all of our secrets are in your head,” Croaker breaks in. “You work for us.”

“There’s no way you can get them back out of his head?” Pansy asks. Croaker gives her a withering glance.

“It wouldn’t be very secure if you could just get the secrets out of someone’s head once you’d captured them, would it?”

“Speaking of kidnapping,” Potter says.

“Yes,” General Dempsey says. “We know that someone tried to kidnap you again, Potter.”

“Kidnap me?” Potter is surprised by this. “I thought they wanted Malfoy.”

“No,” Croaker says in a bored tone. “Just another one of your loony fans.”

“It’s lucky Major Parkinson was there to help,” Dempsey adds.

“I would have been fine on my own,” Potter mutters so quietly that Draco thinks he might be the only one who can hear him.

“But what about the heat tracker on his house?” Draco asks. Beside him, Pansy gives a snort of laughter.

“What heat tracker?” Croaker asks, leaning forward with sudden interest.

“It’s nothing,” Pansy says.

“But you said,” Draco starts to say but Pansy kicks him. He turns his head to glare at her and stops when he sees the look in her eyes. “Nevermind.” He will ask her about that later.

“So,” Croaker continues, sounding irritated. “As I was saying, you work for us now.”

…

“He’s going to need a handler.” Harry hears Parkinson say.

“Whose department does he fall under?” Harry finds himself asking. Both Dempsey and Croaker answer at the same time.

“Mine.” He watches as they turn to face each other, each of them staring daggers at the other one. This is the office politics that Harry so desperately wanted to avoid. He looks down at his hands in his lap, willing them not to draw him into their dispute.

“I’m taking this to Tusneem,” Croaker says.

“No, you're not,” Dempsey responds. “I am.” Harry looks up to see both of the Heads of Department spring out of their chairs and sprint out of the room.

“Don’t you three dare leave,” Croaker calls behind him. And then the door to his office slams shut and locks itself. Harry feels for a fleeting moment like he is back at Hogwarts and he, Ron and Hermione are in trouble in Dumbledore’s office. But instead it’s Parkinson and Malfoy and none of them is in trouble per se. Except perhaps Malfoy.

They all stare at the door for a long moment.

“Well,” Malfoy says, breaking the silence. “I didn’t think this would be important enough to go to the Minister.” At which point, both Harry and Parkinson turn to stare at him in mild disbelief. “What? I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“Oh, it’s a big fucking deal,” Parkinson says. “It’s _all the secrets_ , you idiot. How could it _not_ be a big deal?” Malfoy shrugs.

“I just thought the ‘who will my boss be’ thing might have been addressed _before_ I got here.”

“Oh, you dear innocent boy,” Parkinson says, reaching out to pat Malfoy condescendingly on the head. “The Unspeakables and the Hit Wizards historically don’t get along, despite being in the same department. Dempsey has been gunning for me to bring you in since that damn book went missing so that we could claim you as ours, and I’m sure Saul Croaker has been hoping the same of Potter.”

“Then why didn’t you bring him in?” Harry asks. He is very curious as to why she hasn’t - cries as to why she wanted them to bring Malfoy in together.

“Don't get me wrong, I wanted the credit for bringing him in, but I didn’t want to be stuck with him.” Parkinson turns to Malfoy. “No offense, but sometimes you can be a right pain in the arse.”

“I don’t follow,” Malfoy says.

“Bringing you in at the same time as Potter means that someone else will decide who your handler will be, rather than it defaulting to me. If I do end up as your handler, that’s fine, but there was no way I was going to volunteer to babysit you.”

“So you’re hoping _I_ get stuck with him,” Harry says. “Lovely.”

“Stuck with me?” Malfoy cries. “I didn’t realize I was such a damn burden.” The blond looks genuinely hurt and Harry realizes he and Parkinson are being incredibly insensitive. The conversations about who will be assigned a particular asset, and all the bitching that goes along with them, are usually conducted away from said asset.

“Have you met you?” Parkinson asks. Harry frowns at her as Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“You’re not a burden,” Harry says quickly, reaching out and placing his hands on Malfoy’s arm in what he hopes is a comforting manner. “We don’t mean it that way. It’s just that being a handler takes up all of an agent’s time and it’s often hard to wrap one’s head around the fact that you will be spending that much time with one person. It’s like being assigned a new partner, and a new case at the same time.”

Malfoy continues to scowl and Harry isn’t sure there is much he can do to change that. He tries to put himself in Malfoy’s place and imagine what he is feeling. He imagines just picking up a book one day and that being the reason he works for the Ministry. But as Harry loves his job at the Ministry, he doesn’t quite see how this is a bad thing.

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy lets the subject drop. Instead he turns to Parkinson and asks,

“Now what was it you were saying about that heat tracking spell?” Parkinson presses her lips together, clearly trying to suppress a smile.

“I may have fabricated that,” she says. She stops trying to hold her smile back and an impish grin fills her face. “You should have seen your faces when you learned you had to share a room.” Harry frowns. In all the excitement of the morning, he had forgotten to check about the spell, but it seems there wasn’t one all along. He is not sure how he feels about this. On the one hand, he is irritated with Parkinson for putting him into that situation, but on the other hand, they’d had a great night, which wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t been forced to share a room.

“How Slytherin of you,” Malfoy says. Parkinson’s grin turns into a smirk. She shrugs.

“You’ll get over it. You had voluntarily been on a date with him just an hour earlier,” she says. “And I’m sure it’s not the first time Potter’s had to share a bed with someone he didn’t like. I mean, he’s an Unspeakable after all. It’s often his job to seduce people or pose as their romantic partner.”

“Because the Hit Wizards never do that,” Harry shoots back sarcastically. Even after all these years, Parkinson has the uncanny ability to get under his skin in ways that very few people can. (If he’s being honest, Malfoy is included in that list of people). And it doesn’t help that Harry still doesn’t trust her. He has not forgotten that she was the one who suggested to Snape that they give him up to Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Our missions tend to be a lot shorter than yours,” she counters. “Less of a need to establish long term cover.”

“But why, Pansy?” Malfoy asks, ignoring their back and forth. “Why lie about that?” She shrugs.

“It was funny.” Malfoy sighs, shaking his head.

“You're still the same bitch you were in school, aren’t you?”

“We were all like that, Draco,” Parkinson snaps back. “You were often the worst.”

At this, Malfoy looks slightly mollified, though Harry gets the feeling that this won’t be the last of it. He just hopes he is far away from the pair of them when it flares up again.

Before either of them can say anything more, however, the door to the office opens and Minister for Magic Alfred Tusneem strides into the room. His black robes billow behind him, showing off their teal lining. Harry sees Malfoy sit up straighter in his chair. Hermione enters the room behind Tusneem. She has a striking lime green skirt suit on under her black robes and she looks more put together than the rest of them combined. Harry waves at her,but Hermione ignores him. Both she and Tusneem walk behind Croaker’s desk. Tusneem does not sit, but rather stands and leans forward on the desk, supporting himself on outstretched arms. He nods in Malfoy’s direction.

“You,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Malfoy twitch.

“Who? Me, sir?” Malfoy asks. His voice pitched a squick higher from nerves.

“Yes, you Mr. Malfoy. Tell me about Operation Forrest Shark.” Harry turns and watches Malfoy with open curiosity. He had seen Malfoy recall something the night before, but now he watches as Malfoy’s eyes flick back and forth, as though reading some invisible text, before he blinks, shakes his head slightly and recounts a mission that Harry had been on years earlier that involved a Muggle smuggling ring, some contraband magical materials and a cursed saber.

Tusneem watches Malfoy impassively. When he finishes speaking, the Minister nods once and then stands fully upright, crossing his arms in front of him. He reaches up with one hand and thoughtfully rubs his chin. Then he tilts his head from side to side, cracking his neck. Finally, he speaks.

“And you both brought him in?” He looks from Parkinson to Harry. They both nod.

“And you have agreed to work for us?” Hermione asks Malfoy. Malfoy’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

“I didn’t know I had a choice,” he says.

“Of course you have a choice. You can either work for us, or we’ll send you to Azkaban,” Tusneem says.

“So, it’s not as though I _actually_ have a choice then.” Tusneem shrugs expansively. “Yes, fine. I will work for the Ministry, even though, had circumstances been different, I’m sure there would have been no way in hell that you would have hired me.” Tusneem shrugs again.

“Water under the bridge. Welcome to the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy.” Malfoy purses his lips but nods.

“However, the way I see it,” Tusneem continues. “Your work will need to stay a secret. You are far too valuable of an asset for the general public, and more specifically, the general criminal public, to know who you are.” Malfoy nods slowly. He had to have been expecting that. Harry wonders how he would feel if he knew he couldn’t go back to his old life, to his friends, to his job.

But then, the nature of Harry’s position is different to those of a normal Unspeakable. His cover involves hiding in plain sight, being the Boy-Who-Lived, celebrity eternal. He is invited to any event that he wants to go to, and no one expects him to do anything untoward, so he is never suspected.

“Therefore, you will join the Unspeakables.” Malfoy nods again, this time with a bit more vigor. Behind Tusneem, Harry can see triumph in Croaker’s eyes. Beside him, Dempsey stares straight ahead, her face expressionless. “However, as Project Reliquary is an interdepartmental project, you will also work with the DMLEHS.” Croaker stiffens in surprise and Harry sees the corner of Dempsey’s mouth twitch upward slightly. “I will be setting up a special task force and I will give it a suitably top secret name.” Harry knows that this means it will have a suitably ridiculous top secret name. “As you seem comfortable with both Potter and Parkinson, I am assigning them both as your handlers and the three of you will report to Granger.” Harry’s heart sinks. That complicates things.

“Hermione,,” Tusneem says, turning to face her. “I will leave the rest of the details to you for now. I expect a full report before the end of the day.”

“Of course, Minister,” Hermione says. Croaker and Dempsey merely nod.

“Don’t fuck this up, Granger,” Tusneem says as he walks out of the room. “Project Reliquary was your idea after all.” And then he is gone.

…

“Right then,” Granger says, sitting down behind Croaker’s desk. “Time is of the essence. We need to get you a cover story. I think you can keep your day job, as that’s inconspicuous enough, but we will need a cover story for your handlers.” She turns to Pansy and Potter. “Any ideas there?” Potter looks like a deer caught in headlights. Instead, Pansy pipes up,

“When I found them last night, Draco and Potter were on a date. Could that be their cover?” Draco turns to look at Pansy. She stares innocently back at him, but there is a sparkle in her eye that tells him that she’s doing this to make him uncomfortable again. The way that she did with that heat tracking nonsense.

“Possibly. Malfoy, did you tell anyone else about this date?” Granger asks. Draco thinks about lying in order to force them to come up with another cover, but then he nods.

“My roommate, Greg, and my best friend, Hannah, who is bound to have told her boyfriend, And, knowing Ernie, he has told anybody who will listen,” he says because it is true.

“And we ran into Hannah this morning on the way here,” Potter points out. Helpfully.

It’s not that Draco doesn’t _want_ to spend more time with Potter, it’s just that he has tasted the forbidden fruit now, and it’s going to be damn difficult to keep his hands off of him. Because what Potter had said last night was true. If they’re working together, nothing _can_ happen between them. Draco is going to be miserably horny all the time and unable to do a damn thing about it.

“Perfect,” Granger says. She notes this down on a piece of parchment. “And Parkinson.” She looks up at her. “How do you feel about working in a bookstore? The manager, Dick Burns.” She pauses and looks at the name again. Draco snorts with involuntary laughter. “Does he really go by Dick?”

“No,” Draco says, shaking his head. “It’s just what we call him.” He claps a hand over his mouth, almost unable to keep from laughing. He glances over at Pansy and Potter who are also trying hard to suppress their laughter. Even Dempsey has cracked a smile. Granger clears her throat.

“The manager, _Richard_ Burns, has a reputation for hiring Slytherins.”

“Well, he hired me and Greg,” Draco says. “But none of the others even went to Hogwarts.” Granger waves his comment away.

“The point is, we will ensure that he hires you, Parkinson, and it won’t seem out of character for him,” she says. Pansy nods. “Now, every morning, Malfoy, you will read the Daily Prophet from cover to cover and you will let either Potter or Parkinson know if anything jumps out at you.” Draco nods. He reads the paper most mornings, so this will not seem out of the ordinary for him. “Occasionally we may give you something specific that you need to look at.” Draco feels like he is one of those perpetual motion birds, he is nodding so much. As Granger continues to brief him, he continues to nod. His eyes glaze over and he feels almost as though he is back at Hogwarts, listening to Professor Binns lecture him on the history of magic. 

“So,” Granger says, as she begins to wrap up. “To summarize: Potter and Parkinson will be your handlers. Until you are better trained, they will protect you. And for the most part, when you get information from The Reliquary, you will convey it to them and they will act on it. Your cover is that you and Harryare now dating, which I am sure the Daily Prophet will have a field day with, and that Pansy is your coworker and friend. Are there any questions?” Draco, for what seems like the first time, shakes his head.

“Very good.” Granger begins to shuffle papers together and Draco figures that is their cue to go. He stands up. Pansy and Potter follow his lead.

“Before you go,” Dempsey cuts in. “You will need to stop by my office to get your security credentials.” She addresses Pansy. “Banks can help you with that.” Pansy nods and leads them out of the office. Once they are out of earshot, she says,

“Welcome to the team, Draco.” She pats him briefly on the back.

“Uh, thanks,” he says. “I guess.” He is still processing everything that has happened in the last hour, let alone the last day. The main thing that sticks out in his mind is that Potter is now his fake boyfriend. He dares a glance over at the brunet, but Potter is staring straight ahead down the corridor and ignoring him. Draco supposes there _are_ worse fake boyfriends, but quite frankly Draco would prefer a _real_ boyfriend. Which, it seems, he won’t be able to have now, or else people will ask questions. He sighs. Potter looks over at him.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Draco nods. He is, after all, well acquainted with his hand.

They reach the elevator bank and Pansy pushes the button for up and then immediately starts to tap her foot impatiently.

“Was there any particular reason,” Draco says after watching her for a moment, getting more irritated with every tap of her toes. “That you volunteered the information that Potter and I had been on a date last night?” Pansy stops tapping and frowns at him.

“I thought it would be a good cover story,” she says. “You _were_ on a date last night. It would be an easy cover to sell - I just figured it made the most sense. After all, no one was going to believe you were dating me.”

“I felt like we sold it pretty well at Hogwarts,” Draco protests, even though he knows they didn’t.

“You were together at Hogwarts?” Potter asks. “I had no idea.”

“We weren’t,” Pansy clarifies. “We sometimes let people think we were because it was easier for both of us.”

“Oh, are you-” Potter start to ask.

“-Not attracted to any of the Slytherin boys?” Pansy interrupts. “Did you see them? The only vaguely attractive one was Malfoy, and it became clear to me in our fourth year that the feeling wasn’t mutual.” The elevator door opens with a ping and they crowd inside. Pansy presses the correct floor button and then leans against the wall, facing them both. “Eh, Zabini was decently attractive,” she says, relenting somewhat. “But the pickings were slim to none. And none of the boys in the other houses would deign to date a Slytherin.” She crosses her arms in front of her and glares at a spot on the wall behind Potter. Draco reaches out and rests a hand on her arm.

“We still managed to have fun,”he says. She shrugs.

“Kind of.”

“Ok, aside from unrequited crushes on Michael Corner.”

“For both of us,” Pansy adds.

“So we had a bit of a vendetta against Ginny Weasley.”

“And his lasted longer than mine, because Corner and Weasley broke up, but then she went out with you,” Pansy says, smirking. “Whatever happened to the two of you anyway?” Potter has been watching their back and forth with interest, but now that he has been brought into the conversation, he looks uncomfortable and Draco notices his cheeks coloring.

“We broke up,” he says in a clipped tone, which makes it clear to Draco that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Pansy is sure to have heard it too, but will have fewer qualms about continuing blithely on.

Further conversation, however, is halted by the elevator doors opening. Pansy ushers them out and over to the correct office. Draco is photographed, fingerprinted and has his magical signature documented by an enthusiastic young man that Pansy introduces as Mortimer Banks. Once all of Draco’s details are recorded in a logbook, Banks reaches towards a lower drawer, only to stop suddenly.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, I see you already have a watch,” he says, sitting up straight again. He sweeps his shiny, auburn fringe out of his eyes and adjusts his glasses, which Draco thinks are just for show. “May I see it?” He reaches a hand out and slowly Draco extends his wrist forward. Banks grips it lightly and prods Oliver’s watch with his wand. He points his wand at a piece of paper and frowns at the readout. He looks up at Draco, confusion in his eyes, and then reads the paper again, as if it might have changed in the time he had glanced away.

“Uh,” Draco starts to say.

“You appear to already have a Ministry altered watch,” Banks says. “May I enquire as to how you got it?”

“Uh,” Draco says again. “It was given to me.” He figures that is as close to the truth as he can be without telling the whole saga. He’s not sure how much Banks knows about The Reliquary. Banks frowns at the readout for another few seconds, then shrugs and prods the watch again.

“Very well, I will just change the ownership signatures then,” he says. He waves his wand over the watch face in a complicated pattern and then taps it once. “There. That should do it.” He releases Draco’s wrist and grins up at him. “You’re all set. Welcome to the Ministry of Magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback, as ever, is appreciated :)


	9. Draco Versus The Bet

“I don’t know about you two,” Pansy says as they make their way over to the elevators again. “But I am starving.”

“You should have let us have a proper breakfast then,” Potter says. She rolls her eyes at him and ignores the comment.

“Draco, any ideas about what to do for lunch?” She looks over at him, but he is staring perplexedly at his watch. He keeps prodding it with his fingers and then watching to see if anything happens, which as he’s not using his wand, nothing does.

“What?” he asks, looking up at her.

“Lunch, darling. Where would you like to go?”

“Preferably somewhere where we can talk without fear of people overhearing,” Potter adds.

“Yes, preferably somewhere muggle.”

“Why are you asking me?” Draco snaps. “You two are probably both more acquainted with the kind of restaurant you’re looking for than I would be. I barely ever make it out of Diagon Alley.”

“You’d been to Chelsea,” Potter points out and Draco turns on him, angrily.

“Yes, and you managed to somehow pick the only restaurant in Muggle London that I had been to. Well done, Potter.” Potter throws his arms up in surrender.

“Sorry, would you like me to suggest a place?”

“Please,” Pansy says. She lifts her hand up and examines her nails ignoring the pair of them. She is not overly thrilled about being assigned as one of Draco’s handlers, but then at the same time, the Reliquary project is one of the Ministry’s more important projects, so she is honored to have been chosen to be on the team. She wonders how Potter feels about it. He had not seemed thrilled when Granger had announced that he would be Draco’s handler. She figures he still harbors ill will for him after Hogwarts, though they had seemed chummy enough last night. But then, Potter is trained to portray his emotions in a certain way.

And yet, when she had knocked on Potter’s door this morning, she could have sworn that Draco had been naked in the bed behind him. But that can’t have been right, could it? She had only seen a flash of Draco before Potter had obstructed her view, so perhaps she was leaping to conclusions. And if there was one thing that had been drilled into her since day one of Hit Wizard training, it was not to jump to conclusions.

Plus, Potter wouldn’t be that unprofessional. Not if he knew Draco was the new Reliquary and that they might be working together. Pansy pushes the very idea of impropriety from her mind.

“How do people feel about Pizza Express?” Potter asks, cutting into her thoughts. She looks up from her nails, which are painted to perfection in scarlet, with nary a hangnail to be seen. She shrugs.

“Sure,” she says. She glances at Draco who looks less than thrilled but who nods anyway.

“Right then,” Potter says. “Shall we Floo to my house then? We can go to the Pizza Express on my corner.”

“Is that wise?” Pansy asks. “After all, you were almost kidnapped at the other restaurant near your house.” Potter scowls.

“Actually, I don’t want pizza,” Draco says. Potter throws up his arms in exasperation again.

“Fine,” he says. “Someone else decide.”

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Potter,” Pansy says. “Draco, what _do_ you want?” Draco frowns at his watch for another moment before he finally drops his arm. She stares at him, letting the silence drag on.

“Sushi?” he hazards. Pansy raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Not sushi?”

“Sushi is fine with me,” she says. “I was just surprised you wanted it.”

“What kind of uncultured cretin do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. You do live with Greg,” she says. Draco scowls at her and Pansy realizes with a shock that she’s going to have to see Greg again on this assignment. She hasn’t seen him since Seventh Year, although she had barely seen him then. He and Vince had been the Carrows’ favorites and they were often missing from the common room until the early hours of the morning.

Unbidden, a memory washes over her. Not long before the Battle of Hogwarts, she had been up late in the common room studying for a Charms exam the following day, when Greg and Vince had come in, chuckling and nudging each other. At first she had thought nothing of it, but it quickly became clear that they hadn't noticed her. Vince had lifted up his sleeve and pointed at something on his arm. Pansy had been unable to see what as Greg had been standing in her line of sight.

“Can you believe it?” he’d asked Greg.

“Only because it still stings so much,” Greg had responded. Then he had moved and Pansy had caught a flash of a dark ink on Vince’s pale arm. Her breath had caught in her throat and she had settled deeper in her chair, hiding herself from view with her Charms book. Greg had then punched Vince playfully on the arm and they had made their way up to bed, still chuckling. Pansy hadn’t spoken to either of them again.

And now she would be working next to Greg at Flourish and Blotts. She wonders if he’s still the same as he had been in school. Draco has changed a bit, but under his somewhat more mature exterior, she can still see flashes of the prickly teenager he had been.

“Yo! Sushi, then?” Potter asks. Pansy blinks at him, unsure for a moment what he is talking about. Then she nods.

“Sounds good,” she says. “Where’s that?”

“Fulham Broadway.”

“Great, let’s go.” She starts to walk towards the exit, but Potter stops her.

“We should still Floo to my house,” he says. She frowns at him. “What? We then have to catch a bus, so we’ll be inconspicuous.” She makes a face. She hates Muggle buses. They always seem so slow, as constricted by traffic as they are. She sighs.

“Fine.” She takes a quick glance at Draco, but he seems unconcerned about the whole Muggle public transit thing. That is unexpected. Perhaps he had changed more than she had thought.

…

Draco stares at the plates as they float by him. He is fascinated by the restaurant that Potter has taken them to, where they do not order, but instead they pick up food from tiny floating platforms that circle the kitchen area of the restaurant. He has yet to pick anything up - he has been too busy watching each thing go by. He can’t tell what most of them are, but he decides that is a fun challenge. Or, it will be once he actually takes some food.

He notices Potter staring at him and he rounds on the brunet.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Potter says quickly. “But, you do know that you can just take a plate off there and just eat it, right?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you were.” Potter turns away and concentrates instead on trying to pick up the nigiri in front of him with his chopsticks. He is struggling in a way that Draco almost finds endearing, but also that he somewhat judges him for.

Draco sighs and picks up the next salmon roll that floats by. He snaps open his chopsticks and expertly picks up a piece and transfers it to his mouth. He sees both Pansy and Potter staring at him out of the corner of his eye and ignores them. Did they think he had never been to Japan? Or never used chopsticks before? Potter clearly had not been concentrating the night before. But then, Draco realizes, he isn’t sure if Potter had used chopsticks or a fork at dinner, so he clearly had been focused on other things too.

“Yum,” he says once he has finished his bite. “Good choice me.” He pops another piece in his mouth, then turns to stare back at the pair of them. Pansy rolls her eyes and mouths _show off_ at him.

He winks at her. And then realizes that by winking at her, he was somewhat winking at Potter and that was not what he had meant to do. After all, he’s not allowed to flirt anymore. They’re coworkers now. Potter is in charge of his protection. That, and he’s still pissed off about him not telling him about Oliver.

Fuck.Thinking about Oliver hurts. Perhaps Hannah was right. Perhaps he should think about the fact that he is now fake-dating Harry Fucking Potter, who is arguably a better catch than Oliver Wood. But who is not _actually_ his boyfriend, despite their nighttime activities of the night before.

He turns his attention back to the passing food, desperate to think about neither Wood nor Potter. He realizes he is bloody starving and wants to eat everything. He wonders if the Ministry is paying for lunch and voices this question aloud.

“Oh,” Pansy says, chopsticks paused halfway to her plate. “I hadn’t thought. What do you reckon, Potter?” Potter shrugs. His mouth is full.

“And on that note,” Draco adds. “How will this whole thing work? Does the Ministry pay for our cover dates?”

“I’m not really sure there will be cover dates,” Pansy says at the same time as Potter says,

“Yes, they will.” Pansy puts her hands up in surrender.

“It’s your department,” she mutters.

“Yes,” Potter agrees in a rather clipped tone. “It is. No offense, Parkinson, but I think it might be best if I laid out the ground rules and brought Malfoy up to speed on how our cover will work.” Pansy stares at Potter coolly for a moment before she shrugs and turns back to her food.

“Right then,” Potter says, turning back to Draco. “As I was saying, the Ministry will cover the bill for any of our dates. I imagine most of our dates will really be cover for missions or training sessions, but you never know. Parkinson can keep an eye on you during the day while you’re at Flourish and Blotts, and then I can meet you and walk you home.” Draco tries to protest that he was capable of walking himself home, but Potter ignores him and continues,

“If Hermione needs you to identify something during work hours, one of us will discreetly take you aside, likely to the break room, or some other such private place.

“I imagine there will be many times that Parkinson and I will then need to follow up on whatever you’ve been able to tell us, and for those times, you’ll be on your own.”

Draco grabs another plate as it floats by. He doesn’t even look at what it is, just begins to stuff food into his face while Potter drones on. He goes through several plates of sushi before he interrupts.

“Quick question,” he says. Potter stops talking, mid sentence. His mouth hangs open for a moment before he closes it. “Where will you be sleeping?” Potter blinks owlishly at him. Behind him, Draco can see Pansy smirk into her soup. “I only ask because, uh, I didn’t come home last night. So Greg is going to have ideas about how fast our relationship is moving.” He does not add that Greg would be right.

Pansy is now shaking slightly with suppressed laughter and Draco knows that it is because she thinks she orchestrated this turn of events. In a way, she did. Potter chews his lip for a moment.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” he says finally. “I guess we’ll have to play that one by ear.” Draco nods. He’s not sure what made him ask the question in the first place.

After all, having Potter around will make keeping their relationship professional even more difficult. As it is, Draco is oh so aware of how close they are sitting. They are so close that he can feel the warmth coming off of Potter’s body. If he were to shift his knee slightly to the right, he could “accidentally” hit Potter’s. And Merlin does he now want to, if just to see what reaction he could get. Because Potter has been talking so clinically about their cover relationship that Draco almost can’t believe he is the same man he shared a shower with just a few hours ago.

“I suppose I should take you home to meet Greg,” Draco says. “Or, rather, to reintroduce you to Greg.”

“Yes,” Pansy says enthusiastically. “You can tell him just how great your date went.” This time, both Draco and Potter glare at her while she smiles innocently back at them. Draco can tell that she is enjoying this. He wonders if she suspects that he doesn’t mind as much as she seems to think he does. He wouldn’t put it past her. He had often been surprised that Pansy hadn’t been sorted into Ravenclaw.

“And what will you do during that time?” Potter asks. She shrugs.

“Go home? I reckon you can handle him until work tomorrow.”

“I don’t work Mondays,” Draco says. Pansy practically cackles with glee.

“In which case, Potter, I think you can handle our precious Draco until Tuesday while I get caught up on paperwork and sleep.”

“That hardly seems fair,” Potter mumbles.

“Yes, well, sometimes life isn’t fair,” Pansy says.

“And don’t I fucking know it.”

“Oh, get over yourself.”

“I beg your pardon, Parkinson?”

“Are you deaf? I said get over yourself. You’re not the only one who’s had a hard life.”

Potter looks like he is going to either yell at Pansy or hit her, but instead he takes a deep breath, clenches and un-clenches his hands and then takes a big sip of his water. When he speaks, it is with barely controlled anger.

“I know you’re the reason Oliver is dead.” His voice is soft and his eyes are hard as he stares at her. Pansy sighs and shakes her head, suddenly serious. Draco feels like someone has poured cold water over his insides. He stops eating and stares at Pansy, not wanting to believe what Potter just said.

“No, Potter,” she says. “Oliver is the reason that Oliver is dead. He did that to himself.” She turns and stares straight ahead, her mouth set in a firm line. Draco drops his chopsticks and they clatter onto his plate, but no one notices.

“You were fucking there,” Potter spits. “You were the last person to see him.” At this point, his voice catches and he balls his fists in his lap. Pansy’s head snaps around again.

“It was my job, Potter,” she says coldly. “He _broke into a Ministry facility to steal Ministry property._ What the fuck else was I supposed to do? Just let him go? He stole the fucking Reliquary and when I cornered him, he clearly felt he would rather die than tell us why. And I was too slow to stop him, even though I bloody well tried.” Draco’s head is pounding and he has to tell himself to take slow breaths.

“Perhaps you should have tried harder.”

“Oh, you think I don’t fucking know that? Where the hell do you get off telling me I should have been able to stop him when perhaps you should have stopped him before-”

“-Don't you dare suggest that I knew anything about this.” Potter is clenching his fists so tightly, his knuckles are white. Draco continues to watch their argument, getting very distinct flashbacks of watching his parents fight and neither of them noticing his distress.

“Oh, of course not,” Pansy says. “Why would Saint Potter _ever_ be mixed up in something untoward?”

“I swear to you, I knew nothing about this. I was as blind sided as the rest of us were.”

“Sure you were.”

“I said, I fucking knew nothing,” Potter growls. Draco can feel the tension literally building in the air, and it is only when the corner of Potter’s napkin starts smoldering, that he realizes it’s not tension, but rather Potter’s magical energy. Draco shivers. He had been unaware that Potter was quite so powerful. Pansy clearly notices, because Draco watches as her face cycles through several emotions: surprise, alarm, irritation and then resignation.

“Whatever,” she says, throwing up her hands. “Croaker believes you and I suppose that’s good enough for me. But you need to understand that it is _not_ my fault he died I tried to stop him. But I couldn’t…” she trails off, her lip suddenly trembling. She pulls herself together after a moment and her face turns hard again. “Look, I understand how you’re feeling. I’ve lost partners too. It’s shit. And I’m sorry for being insensitive.”

Potter unclenches his fists, notices his napkin for the first time and pats out the embers. He looks side to side to check if anyone noticed, and both Pansy and Draco pretend not to have seen anything.

Draco is still shaking. With this new information, he has even more questions about Oliver and he can’t decide if he wants to know or he would rather bury his head in the sand. He takes another couple of calming breaths and then picks up his chopsticks again. As he does, he feels Potter’s knee press against his and although he doesn't know if it is deliberate or not, it still has the effect of calming him.

“I accept your apology, Parkinson,” Potter says after a long pause. “And I’m sorry for flying off the handle. I’ve lost so many people in my life you would think I would be used to it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” Draco surprises himself by saying. Potter turns to look at him. “No one should ever be ‘used to losing people’.” Potter shrugs and Draco shakes his head at him. “No.”

“Either way, Parkinson, I’m sorry.” He holds out a hand, which Pansy takes and they shake.

“Apology accepted,” she says. “But you still have to deal with Draco for two days. I really do have a shit ton of paperwork to do. Which, may I point out, is also not fair. Or fun. At least Draco talks.”

“This is true,” Draco says. “It’s one of my many skills.”

…

The rest of the meal is spent in relative calm. Harry is still embarrassed that he let his anger get out of control the way that it did, so he has tried to quell his emotions as best he can anytime Parkinson speaks. He knows he is being unfair to her about Oliver, but it fucking hurts any time that he thinks about it, and at that moment, all he wanted to do was lash out at someone. But that still doesn’t make it fair. And so now he also feels like a bit of a dick.

And on top of that, he’d been an insensitive jerk when he had blindsided Malfoy with the information that Parkinson was there when Oliver had died. He had been so wrapped up in his own emotions, he hadn't noticed how upset the other man was until he’d set a fucking napkin aflame.

Parkinson had left before the bill even arrived, saying that she trusted Harry to pay and fill out the reimbursement paperwork without her. He can’t blame her for wanting to scarper as soon as she had the opportunity. Of course, this just makes him feel like even more of a dick, but he understands.

Which means he is stuck with Malfoy, who he can’t get a read on. If anything, Harry imagines he is overwhelmed. He knows he would be, were he in Malfoy’s shoes.

He feels like he should start some sort of conversation, but his mind is coming up empty. So he sits and twiddles his thumb until the bill arrives. He fumbles in his pocket for his wallet, and his elbow brushes Malfoy’s arm. In spite of himself, a thrill goes through Harry’s stomach. Fuck, but that’s not helping anything. Nothing can happen, aside from what they have to pretend to the rest of the world.

He pulls out a credit card and places it on top of the bill without even glancing at it. Their waiter takes it away and Harry resumes fiddling his thumbs.

“You’re not going to talk to me?” Malfoy asks. Harry looks up in surprise.

“Well, you weren’t saying anything,” Harry protests.

“Neither were you.”

“Then it seems we are at an impasse.” Malfoy narrows his eyes. He reaches over and picks up his water.

“So what’s the plan then?” he asks once he has taken a sip.

“Plan?”

“Yes, for the rest of the day.”

“There isn’t one.”

“What? No training? Or going over more details of our fake relationship?”

“What else is there to go over?” Harry asks, confused. “I asked you out, you said yes. We went on a great date last night and we hit it off.”

“I mean, like what are we allowed to do? To convince people that it’s real? Can I kiss you? How handsy are you? If we’re in the same room, in a casual situation, where do we sit in relation to each other?”

“Can I keep my hand in your back pocket?” Harry asks, interrupting Malfoy’s string of questions.

“There’s no need to be snippy. These are legitimate questions. And perhaps it’s not something you’ve discussed before, but I’m new to this and I need to know where I stand. Or, even, where I fake stand.”

“Do whatever feels natural,” Harry says. Their waiter comes back with the receipt and he spends a few moments figuring out the tip. He is a bit surprised at the total, but then he looks over at the stack of plates that Malfoy has made his way through and it makes sense. As he is signing the check, he feels a hand on his leg. The pen veers off the paper and onto the table as he starts in surprise.

“You said to do what felt natural,” Malfoy all but purrs into his ear.

“I did, didn’t I?” Harry says. “But I would also argue, there’s no need for the charade right now.”

“No?” Malfoy asks, pouting but still not removing his hand. “But what if there are other wizards about? Or, better yet, the Prophet?” Harry groans. “What? If your cover is that you’re Harry Potter, and my cover is that I’m your boyfriend, the Prophet is bloody going to have to find out at some point.” At this, Malfoy sits back and removes his hand. “Which,” he says more quietly. “Means my parents will find out.” And then even more quietly. “Fuck.”

“They won’t approve of me?”

“They, ah, don’t actually know I’m gay.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Malfoy is silent for a long moment and stares at the wall behind Harry’s shoulders. Then he snaps to attention. “Well, no time like the present, I suppose. How do you feel about Wiltshire?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How do you feel about going to Wiltshire? I know you probably don’t have the most pleasant memories of my house, but then again, neither do I.”

“You’re suggesting we go to your house? Right now?” Harry asks. Of all the things he had expected Malfoy to say, this had not even factored in. Malfoy’s mouth twists from side to side while he appears to think it over.

“Yes,” he says eventually. “I mean, if that’s alright with you. It’s just if my parents find out that I prefer men from the newspaper, it is quite possible they will never speak to me again. Of course, that’s a possibility either way, but this fucking book is really forcing my hand now. And maybe this way, my mother will finally stop trying to set me up with various female family friends over holidays.”

Harry can’t help but snort in amusement at the idea of Malfoy being subjected to his mother’s matchmaking. Mrs. Weasley has tried it with him too many times to count now. It is kind of her to try, even after he and Ginny had broken up.

“Alright,” Harry says, even though he’s not sure it’s the best idea. “Let’s go to bloody Wiltshire.”

…

Draco stares up at the Malfoy Manor gates. They are tall and imposing, made of wrought iron, with twin Ms at the top, painted in gold. He knows these gates well - how could he not? But standing outside of them with Potter makes them feel oddly imposing. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and takes a step forward. He reaches out and pushes the closest gate. It opens at his touch, and he ushers Potter inside before following.

When he lets go of the gate, it clangs shut behind them. Draco tries to pretend the sound isn't menacing. Without thinking, he reaches out and takes Potter’s hand. Potter, to his credit, does not immediately snatch his hand away, but instead looks curiously at Draco.

“I need moral support,” Draco says by way of explanation. “And you’re all I’ve got.” Potter shrugs but does not take his hand away. They start to walk down the driveway. The pale, white gravel crunches under their feet. Draco rarely comes this way, as he usually takes the Floo straight to the house, but this is the only way when bringing a guest. Although, this is the first guest Draco has brought home in a while. (The last had been Hannah, whom his mother had adored and then been disappointed to learn was just a friend.)

Draco’s heart is hammering in his chest and he is worried he will falter on the walk to the house. But somehow, he manages it. And then he stares up at the Manor itself. All grey stone and gothic architecture. The doors open, seemingly of their own accord, but as he and Potter cross the threshold, a house elf peeks out from behind the oak.

“Master Draco,” it squeaks. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Where are they?” he asks, looking around as if his parents are hidden behind one of the tapestries in the entrance hall.

“The South Drawing Room, sir.” Draco nods and goes left down the corridor. He doesn’t say anything to Potter. He doesn’t have to. The brunet is still holding his hand. Draco lets it drop.

Narcissa and Lucius are engaged in a game of Wizard’s Chess when they enter the drawing room. Draco is surprised. He has not seen them do much aside from drink and sleep since the War. But then, he hasn’t been home in a while.

“Mother,” he says. “Father.” They look up, startled, but Narcissa recovers quickly and gets gracefully to her feet. She glides across the floor and embraces him.

“Hello darling,” she says into his hair. He returns the hug quickly before letting go. Lucius stays where he is, but nods in Draco’s direction. And then they notice Potter. Draco can actually tell the moment that Lucius realizes there is another person there, as he stiffens slightly in surprise. Narcissa’s smile, which was already on her face, takes on more of a fixed look.

“Mr. Potter,” she says. She walks over to him and extends her hand. “How nice to see you.” Potter returns the handshake warmly, clasping his mother’s hand in both of his. Narcissa turns back to Draco.

“Draco, darling,” she says. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” She walks over to the fireplace and picks up a small bell. She rings it once to summon a house elf, who appears moments later with a loud _crack_. “Tea, please,” she says. “For four.”

“Oh, mother, we can’t stay,” Draco starts to say.

“I’m afraid I will not take no for an answer.” She crosses the room again. This time she sits down in what Draco knows is her favorite chair. Lucius sighs and stands, moving over to sit opposite his wife.

“Come sit down, son,” he says. “You know how your mother is.” Draco looks helplessly over at Harry, but the other man is already making his away over to the sofa. Draco sighs, beaten, and sits down next to Potter. There is a an uncomfortable silence as they all stare at each other, and then Narcissa asks again,

“Do what do we owe this visit?”

“Right,” Draco says. “That.” He feels his hands start to sweat and he wipes them nervously on his trousers. He wants to reach out to Potter again, but he can’t. His heart is racing and his tongue is dry in his mouth. He wishes now that he had waited until dinner time, or at least perhaps cocktail hour. This would be so much easier with alcohol in his system. And in theirs. He takes a deep breath and then blurts out,

“I’m gay.”

“Sorry?” Lucius asks.

“I’m gay,” he says again. “I like men. Er- in that way.” He should have started with some sort of preamble. But he’s said it now and he can’t go back and start this conversation over, as much as he would like to. Narcissa stands, walks back to the fireplace and rings the bell again.

_Crack_.

“Cancel the tea. We would like some gin,” she says. “Please bring the cocktail set.”

_Crack._ The house elf disappears. Narcissa returns to her seat. It is going about as well as he had expected. And at least no one has thrown anything. Yet.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says.

“For what?” his mother asks.

“For springing this on you like this. I meant to kind of lead up to it, but I was just so nervous that-”

“-Yes, darling. That is what the gin is for.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, look at you. You’re on tenterhooks over there.” She stands again and makes her way over to him. He sits, frozen, unsure of what is going on and jumps when she starts to smooth down his hair.

There is another loud _crack_ , and a house elf appears with an ice bucket, four tumblers, four bottles of tonic water, a plate of lime slices and a large bottle of gin. Narcissa leaves Draco and deftly makes him a gin and tonic with practiced hands. She hands it to him and he takes it, still dumbstruck. He takes a tentative sip. Merlin, his mother has a heavy hand when it comes to drinks.

He watches in silence, sipping his gin with a hint of tonic water, while his mother makes three more and passes them out. Potter doesn't protest, but nods politely and takes one. Narcissa sits down again and stares intently at Draco.

“Now, where were we?” she asks. She smooths her skirt over her knees.

“Draco is gay,” Lucius says.

“Right, yes. Go on, dear,” Narcissa says.

“What do you mean ‘go on’?” Draco asks.

“I figured you had more to say.”

“I thought you might have more of a reaction,” Draco says. He's not sure if he actually would have preferred more of a reaction. Every time he had gone over this conversation in his head, his parents had been upset. There had been tears and yelling. This calm nonchalance is unnerving.

“Oh, please,” his mother says. “I've known you since you were born. You think I didn't see this coming?”

“But you always try to set me up with Greg’s sister!” Draco protests. At this, Narcissa laughs.

“I do, don't I?” She lifts her glass to her lips and takes a rather large drink from it. “Well, you know. I have appearances that I have to keep up. I had to make it look like I was trying to marry you off.” Draco stares at her uncomprehendingly. “And I was waiting for you to come out to _us_ before I tried to set you up with any eligible bachelors.”

“I don’t need setting up, _Mother_. I have a boyfriend.”

“Which,” Potter interjects. “Is where I come in.” Lucius turns to him and raises an eyebrow. Anyone observing this, could tell that this was where Draco had learned how to do it.

“You?” Lucius asks. _Ah,_ Draco thinks. _Here's where the throwing things begins._

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” Potter says. “I am dating your son.” Lucius’s lips press together in a thin line.

“And we figured it was best to come and tell you in person,” Draco says. “Before, you know, it was in the Prophet or something.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Narcissa says. She turns to Lucius. “Well dear, you owe me fifty galleons.” Lucius grumbles. Draco splutters. Potter snorts with laughter.

“What?” Draco cries once he can form words again.

“I don’t think this bet should still count,” Lucius says. “We made it _years_ ago.”

“Years ago?” Draco looks helplessly over at Potter who is biting his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“How long ago was it, Cissa?” Lucius asks. Narcissa twists her mouth as she thinks.

“Fifteen years? Maybe seventeen? Do you remember that day I took you to get your robes fitted in Madame Malkins? And you met Potter for the first time. You wouldn’t shut up about him all summer. It was all ‘Do you think Harry will be my friend? I know we got off on the wrong foot, but maybe he’ll come around. Oh, mum, what if he gets sorted into Slytherin!’”

“I nearly was,” Potter says. Draco spits out the mouthful of gin he had just taken to help cope with the fact that his mother was embarrassing him.

“You were? What do you mean almost?” Potter shrugs.

“This probably isn’t the right time to have this conversation,” he says. “Suffice to say, I wasn’t.” Draco frowns and files it away for another time. He turns back to his mother.

“So you and Dad have had a bet that I would go out with Harry Potter since I was eleven?” Narcissa gives him an embarrassed smile.

“Yes,” she says.

“But what if he’d been straight?”

“That’s part of the reason the odds were fifty to one on it ever happening,” Lucius says.

“Only fifty to one?”

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa says. “You should have heard yourself. Every summer you would come home and talk about all the things Potter had done. You were a tad obsessed.”

“Yes, because I hated him.” Draco is on the edge of his seat now. He puts his drink down in irritation.

“Did you though?” Potter asks, a small smile playing across his face.

“Quiet you,” Draco snaps. He crosses his arms and glares around at them all. Lucius lounges in his chair, lazily sipping at his drink. Narcissa blinks serenely back at him. Potter takes him by surprise, by reaching out a hand and tugging one of his arms away.

“Don’t look so grumpy,” he says. Draco continues to scowl at him, but allows Potter to uncross his arms and take his hand. Narcissa puts a hand across her chest.

“You two are precious,” she says. She smiles at them, a warm, motherly smile and Draco feels his irritation melting away, replaced instead with a more mild irritation that he hadn’t come out to his parents earlier. It would have saved him so much heartache.


	10. Draco Versus the Photoshoot

Whatever Harry had expected from the Malfoys, it had not been this. It _really_ would not have been that the senior Malfoys had had a seventeen year bet on whether or not he would ever get together with their son. But he had dealt with plenty of unexpected things in his time, so he had taken it in his stride.

Taking things in stride was a skill he had honed as an Unspeakable and one that he wished he’d had a better grasp on earlier in his life. He supposed some of it came with age though. And at least this had been a pleasant surprise. He’d had far too many that had been terrible. Not least of all the unpleasant surprise from earlier in the week.

Every time he thinks about Oliver, his chest aches. He knows there is nothing for it but time, and possibly distraction, but Merlin does it hurt. But for now, he does not have time to feel sorry for himself.

He takes another sip of the gin and tonic that Narcissa had given him, glad for something to do with his hands. Or, rather, his hand, as his other one is holding Malfoy’s. And, in all honesty, holding Malfoy’s hand makes him feel a bit better for reasons he will not let himself think about right now.

The conversation has moved on to more mundane topics, such as work, and Harry has let his mind wander, but now he realizes that they are all staring at him, so he snaps his attention back to the room.

“What was that?” he asks, smiling politely at Lucius.

“And what do you do?” Narcissa asks him.

“Oh, me? Uh, I’m essentially a professional celebrity,” he says. This is his cover. “I trained as an Auror for a time after the War, but I guess you could say I retired.”

“So you’re unemployed,” Lucius says flatly.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You do not have a current job. Therefore you are unemployed.”

“I suppose if you put it that way,” Harry says slowly.

“Well, don’t expect Draco to support you,” Lucius says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “You know he works at a bookstore, correct?” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Draco slap his free hand to his forehead.

“I can support myself, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry says evenly. “I still have rather steady book sales that provide my income. Not to mention several licensing-”

“-Yes, no need to rub it in, Potter,” Draco snaps. “Some of us still have to make an honest living.” Harry starts to protest, but gives up after a moment. Draco knows he has a job after all.

He glances down at his watch and wonders if enough time has passed that they can politely leave. He feels as though they have been here for six hours, but it has barely been two. Still, it’s getting towards evening. He looks up and clears his throat.

“We should probably be getting back to London,” he says. “We have dinner reservations for six thirty.” Beside him, Draco leans forward and puts his now empty glass down before standing up. The rest of them follow his lead and there is a flurry of embraces as Draco bids farewell to his family. Harry is about to walk out of the room, when Narcissa walks up to him and sweeps him into her arms.

“Take care of him,” she whispers in his ear. “And so help me, Merlin, if you hurt him, I don’t care who you are, I will end you.” Harry gulps and nods. Of course, he has no intention of hurting her son. It’s not even a real relationship. And even if it were, Harry prides himself on still being on good terms with all of his exes. Just ask Ginny Weasley.

They leave the elder Malfoys in the sitting room and make their way downstairs. Before Harry can walk outside, Draco grabs his arm and steers him into a side room.

“Wha-?” Harry starts to say, but then Draco gestures at the fireplace.

“Might as well Floo home,” he says. Harry would almost prefer to apparate, but he nods and follows Draco to the grate. “This fireplace has a special link to mine, so it doesn’t matter that I haven’t added you to the family floo wards yet, and then we can go ahead and do that once we’re there.”

“That seems rather,” Harry starts to say.

“Unsafe?” Draco shrugs. “Possibly, but it’s only this fireplace and it was getting hard to remember which of the house elves were and were not already allowed to bring us food from my parents.”

“Your parents send you food?”

“Sometimes,” Draco says. He notices Harry’s stare and glares at him. “What, like your parents never-” and then he stops himself. His gaze drops to the floor. “Sorry.”

“It’s ok. I’ve had twenty seven years to come to terms with it,” Harry says. He chews his lip for a moment and then adds, “And Mrs. Weasley sends me food almost once a week.” The last part is an exaggeration. Though Molly does often surprise him with baked goods, her visits have grown much less frequent as of late. 

Malfoy nods and takes a step towards the grate. He reaches up on top of the hearth and grabs a handful of Floo powder.

“Shall we?” he asks. Harry nods and Draco drops the powder. “34 Sorella Gardens,” he cries, loud enough that Harry can hear him, even though Harry already knows the address. As the green flames rise up to engulf Malfoy, Harry makes a split second decision and dives into the fireplace with the blond, clutching at his waist and tugging him close. He feels Draco grab him back as they hurtle through the network, fireplaces and sitting rooms flashing past them, until the spinning stops and they stumble out into Draco’s living room.

Harry glances quickly around the room as they fall forward and spots and astonished Gregory Goyle sitting on the sofa. Pretending he has not seen him, he steadies the two of them and then on the pretense of reaching up to brush some dust out of Malfoy’s hair, he pulls the blond’s face close and presses their mouths together. If Malfoy is surprised, he doesn’t show it, instead eagerly kissing Harry in return.

There comes a small cough from behind them. Harry pulls himself away and pretends to notice Goyle for the first time.

“Oh shit,” he says. “Hi.” He spins Malfoy around until they are both facing his roommate. Malfoy waves sheepishly.

“I take it from this display that your date went well then,” Goyle says.

“You could say that,” Malfoy says. “Yes.” He takes Harry’s hand and leads him further into the room. “Greg, I’m sure you remember Potter.”

“How could I not?” Harry flashes him an awkward grin and then holds out his hand.

“Nice to see you again, Goyle,” he says. Goyle considers him for a moment before taking his hand.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Greg. The Goyle name has been rather dragged through the mud.”

“Right, yes, of course,” Harry says. He drops Malfoy’s hand, walks over to the sofa and sits down. Malfoy watches him for a moment before sitting down next to him. None of them say anything for a long moment. Eventually, Greg gestures at the two of them.

“So, are you two a pair now?” he asks.

“Yes,” Malfoy says.

“Then it’s only a matter of time before we have Daily Prophet gossip witches parked outside our house?” Malfoy looks at Harry.

“Possibly,” Harry says. Greg sighs. He looks down at himself for a moment, then flexes his bicep.

“Gonna have to work on these guns then,” he says. Then he looks up at them and grins. “You know, if I might make it into the paper.”

“Is that your way of giving us your blessing?” Malfoy asks.

“Mine is not the blessing you need, Draco.”

“Oh, we’ve already seen his parents.”

“Shit, it’s that serious already?” Malfoy shrugs. “After a day? Damn, Potter, your cock must be made of gold or something because he never takes anyone to meet Lucius. Not even the last guy he was in a serious relationship with.” Harry blinks at Greg. He had not been nearly this gregarious in school. In fact, the main noises he had heard the taciturn boy make at Hogwarts were guffaws in response to whatever Malfoy had just said.

“Greg,” Malfoy says, leaning forward in his seat. “What the fuck? Be cool.”

“Sorry,” Greg says, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Hannah invited me over for brunch, and I may be several mimosas to the wind.”

“Well, still, be cool. You’re probably going to see a lot of Potter from now on.”

“And speaking of that,” Harry says. “You should probably call me Harry.”

“But that sounds wrong,” Malfoy says without pause and Harry realizes that it does. And that he has been referring to Malfoy in his head as Malfoy the entire time. Fuck. Should he change that? He tests out the name Draco in his head. It doesn’t sound as strange as he had expected.

“I’m not one to judge,” Greg says. “But I would think that if you spent all night fucking, you should probably be on first name terms.”

“Who said we-?” Mal- _Draco_ splutters.

“Your face,” Greg interrupts. “Just now.” He grins cheekily and Draco scowls at him.

Harry stares in wonder at Greg again. He is so changed from the boy he knew at Hogwarts that it is almost like he is a completely different person. He wonders what brought about the change. But then, Harry had never known him in school - not really. For all he knew, Greg had been just as affable when in the Slytherin Common room. Either way, he likes this Greg.

“Um, guilty as charged,” Harry says, putting on a mock ashamed face.

“Ha,” Greg cries, slapping his hand on his thigh in amusement. “I knew it.”

…

Draco can’t quite believe the conversation he is in. Nothing about the past few days seems real. Most of it has been shrouded in a veil of tiredness after his late night Reliquary reading and, ahem, after last night’s activities led to him not getting much sleep for a second night. But Circe last night had been worth it.

He is sure he will not feel this way in a few days, once he’s had to pretend that he and Potter are an item without any of the benefits associated with seeing someone regularly. But for now he is more than glad he took advantage of being able to sleep with Potter while he had the chance.

“So,” Potter himself says, breaking into Draco’s train of thought. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“I take it you’re staying then?”

“Of course,” Potter says. “All night.” At this, he winks and Draco feels the color rise in his face.

“Well, thank Merlin Draco’s room is at the top of the house,” Greg says. Draco forces out a laugh. It sounds awkward, even to his ears. Shit. He’s going to have to get better at this fake relationship business. And, he grouses to himself, he should probably call the black haired git by his first name. Like a normal person and not like school rivals. He should also potentially stop referring to him as a black haired git. Maybe.

As he tunes back into the conversation again, he hears Potter say, “We could get take away?”

“Oh screw it,” Draco says. “Let’s just go to the pub.”

…

The Leaky Cauldron is not overly full when they arrive. Most of the bar stools are empty and there are plenty of open tables. Draco spots Hannah behind the bar and makes a beeline for a barstool. He does not look back to see if Potter and Greg follow him, but they do.

Potter slides into the seat next to him and moves it ever so slightly closer, so that their knees are practically touching under the bar and when he leans forward, their elbows battle for space on the bar top. Draco’s breath catches for a moment in his throat, but he pushes the feeling aside. He can be professional. He just needs to remember that he’s still slightly pissed off at him for not telling him about Oliver.

The feeling of being punched in the stomach comes back briefly as he thinks about that and it is enough to make him set aside how attracted he is to Potter.

He catches Hannah’s eye and waves at her. She finishes counting out another patron’s change and walks over to them. In true Hannah fashion, there is a bounce in her step, despite it being a Sunday evening when Draco knows she would rather be curled up on the couch with Ernie, watching something on their jury-rigged Muggle television.

“How can I help you fine gentlemen?” she asks, grinning.

“Newcastle,” Potter-whose-real-name-is-Harry-goddamnit says. Hannah’s eyebrows lift briefly in surprise at the choice of a Muggle beer but she nods and picks up a glass.

“Draco? Greg? What’ll it be?”

“Dragon’s Tooth,” Greg says. Draco frowns.

“Wine?” he hazards. “No, screw it, give me what Potter’s having. I mean Harry. His name is Harry.”

“This is true,” Hannah agrees. “His name is indeed Harry. Did you just realize this?”

“They’re dating,” Greg says. “So I pointed out they should be on first name terms.”

“Oh!” Hannah exclaims, looking back and forth between Harry and Draco. Harry takes the opportunity to lean into Draco and smile, while Draco turns and glares at Greg. He imagines they look like some kind of Muggle sitcom. Hannah laughs and then turns to pull their beers.

“Thanks for just telling everyone, Greg,” Draco mutters. Greg shrugs.

“It’s not everyone,” he says. “It’s Hannah! She’s practically family! It’s not like you were going to keep it a secret.”

“Plus,” Hannah says as she plonks Harry and Draco’s beers in front of them. “It’s not exactly a surprise after this morning.”

“Right,” Draco says. “I think I still owe you for the firewhisky coffee.” Hannah waves dismissively at him.

“On the house,” she says. “This beer, however.” She finishes pulling one beer and plonks it down in front of Draco. “You can pay me for.”

…

They stay at the Leaky Cauldron until they are the last people there. Which is a common occurrence for Draco and a first for Harry. Draco knows this because Harry keeps trying to apologize to Hannah for making her stay so late.

“But Har’,” Ernie says, leaning across the table that they are now sitting at to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “She has nothing to go home for? I’m _here.”_ Harry frowns at him.

“When did you get here?” he asks. Ernie shrugs.

“Twenty minutes ago? But you’ve been busy talking with Greg, so I’m not surprised you didn’t notice me.”

“That,” Greg says. “And he’s had about six drinks.”

“Shush,” Harry intones at Greg. “I’m the Boy-Who-Lived, I can hold my liquor.”

“How does not dying when you were one make you good at drinking?” Draco asks. Harry waves a hand at him.

“Magic,” he says. Draco shakes his head.

“We’re all able to do magic, you pompous ass,” Draco says. Harry narrows his eyes and glares at him.

“Special magic,” he says.

“I call bullshit,” Greg says. “You, sir, are intoxicated.”

“Yeah, well, so are you,” Harry protests.

“Never said I wasn’t.”

…

Greg, Harry and Draco stumble home half an hour later, all three of them leaning on each other in support. It is a good thing that it is late on a Sunday and there are few people around Diagon Alley as they end up meandering their way from one side of the street to the other on their circuitous route home.

Upon reaching the house, they tumble across the threshold, and Harry straightens up for a moment and leans against the wall.

“Checking our wards, Potter?” Draco asks him.

“Well, yes,” Harry says.

“Ooh, do you need extra protection because you’re a celebrity?” Greg asks. He is sitting on the bottom stair now, looking up at them.

“Something like that,” Harry mutters. He stays against the wall for a good thirty seconds before stepping away again. Greg watches him with interest, but Harry ignores this. He nods at Draco.

“Shall we?” he asks, gesturing to the stairs. Draco nudges Greg with his feet and the other man pulls himself into a standing position, grunting and groaning as he returns to vertical.

“Nightcap?” Greg asks. He does not wait for an answer but instead trudges up the stairs. Harry and Draco traipse behind him. Once they reach the living room, Harry sprawls across the closest sofa and closes his eyes. Greg catches Draco’s eye and the blond shrugs.

“It was a late night,” he says.

“Should we just go to bed then?”

“Probably.” Draco starts towards the stairs.

“Are you just going to leave him there?” Greg asks, gesturing at the prostrate Harry. Draco sighs dramatically.

“I suppose not.” He pulls out his wand. “Levicorpus.” Harry’s eyes snap open as his body leaves the couch. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his own wand.

“Finite incantatum,” he cries and flops back onto the sofa. He scrambles upright and glares at Draco. “I can walk, you know.” Draco shrugs.

“Uh, I will leave you two to it,” Greg says and start towards the stairs again. “Goodnight.” Harry raises a hand and then continues to glare at Draco once Greg has gone. Draco ignores him and starts up the next set of stairs, leaving Harry to follow.

…

“What the fuck was that?” Harry asks once they reach the landing of Draco’s tower.

“I thought it was funny,” Draco says. He stares down at his shoes, not daring to meet Harry’s eye. Part of him had thought it was funny, part of him had wanted to just piss Potter off. He is on edge from keeping up the charade of their relationship, and it’s only been a day.

At the same time, he still feels hollow every time he glances down at Oliver’s watch. He really ought to have asked for a new one. And so he is annoyed at himself for not doing that. And he is still angry with Potter for not telling him about Oliver the night before, even if a small part of him understands that there was never quite a good time to do it.

In short, Draco is a giant ball emotions and there is only one person around right now to take them out on. Only he’s not sure if he wants to hit Harry or kiss him, which is fast becoming a common dilemma.

He settles instead on continuing to stare at the floor.

“Well, it wasn’t funny,” Harry snaps. Draco hasn’t seen Harry this pissed off since Hogwarts, and part of him wants to keep pushing Harry’s buttons to see what happens.

“It was a little funny,” he says, looking up and smirking at at the brunet. Harry continues to glare, but as Draco watches, the corners of his mouth start to twitch up. “See,” he says. “Even you think it was funny.” Harry rolls his eyes.

“Perhaps,” he relents. “But I’d prefer you not do it again.”

“Fair,” Draco says. He turns away and walks into the bathroom in order to brush his teeth. Harry follows him. As he picks up his toothbrush, he watches as Harry stands for a moment, staring at the second, empty sink before he seems to come to himself.

“I need to get my things,” he says quietly.

“Do you need the coordinates again?” Draco asks, toothbrush halfway to his mouth. Harry shakes his head. He points to his watch.

“I stored them here,” he says and disappears out of the bathroom.

A moment later, Draco hears the loud crack that indicates Potter has left and he lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He puts the toothbrush in his mouth and starts to brush his teeth.

He feels like the last two days have lasted a week and so he is unsurprised to see dark circles under his eyes when he glances up at his reflection in the mirror. He frowns around his toothbrush. While Potter is gone, he is going to have to apply all his various potions and tinctures to make his face look more like the face he is used to seeing every morning. Not that there is anything to combat lack of sleep - only sleep will do that.

He groans and spits his toothpaste out. He’s going to have to share his bed with Harry. And it’s going to be awkward. Oh, they’ll pretend that everything is fine, but Draco knows that he will be painfully aware of every movement either of them makes. He wishes now that he had agreed to the nightcap, even though he knows he’s had more than enough alcohol for the day.

He rinses out his mouth and washes off his toothbrush before opening the cabinet behind the mirror and grabbing the first of his face creams. He uncaps it and is just starting to apply it, when he hears Harry arrive back on the landing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Now Potter will know how much effort he puts into his appearance, and it feels too early in their (fake) relationship for him to know that. He is about to replace the potion when Harry walks back into the bathroom.

“Ah, Vossman’s Nightly Complexion Cream,” he says. “If I had known you had some, I wouldn’t have brought mine.” And Draco realizes, that for all his seeming nonchalance about his appearance, Harry is just as vain as he is.

…

“Right,” Harry says once he and Draco are back in Draco’s bedroom. “Which side of the bed do you want?” And then he feels stupid, because it is quite clear which side of the bed Draco usually sleeps on as the pillows are crumpled and the covers are pulled back. Clearly, despite his parents’ reliance on house elves, Draco does not have one.

“This side,” Draco says, pointing to the slept in side and walking around to it. Harry nods and pulls the covers back on the other side and clambers in. He is wearing his full set of pajamas, even though he usually only wears the bottoms, in an effort to be more properly attired for bed. Draco is still in his clothes and is twisting his hands together awkwardly.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, tilting his head to the side.

“Uh, I normally sleep in my underwear. I don’t actually _have_ pajamas.”

“Ok,” Harry says with a shrug. “Then sleep in your underwear. I don’t mind.” Even though Harry knows it will make him even more on edge than he already is. His job as Draco’s handler is to make Draco comfortable, not himself. He notices that Draco is still wringing his hands together. “Do you need me to look away?”

“Yes please.” Harry obliges and turns on his side, away from the blond. Though part of him thinks it is silly - they have slept together after all - he knows that these feelings are not often rational. He feels the covers move and the mattress shift as Draco climbs into bed.

“Erm, good night then,” Draco says. The lights dim and a moment later, Harry hears the soft clatter of a wand being placed on a surface.

“G’night,” he says quietly and closes his eyes.

…

Despite the fact that Draco is aching with tiredness, he feels wide awake. He can feel Harry’s warmth on the other side of the bed and thus is frozen in place, unable to bring himself to move, even though his leg is at an uncomfortable angle. It is so quiet he imagines that even his breathing must sound loud and so he tries to breathe more slowly.

He wonders if Harry feels the same way. But then reasons that of course he doesn’t. He’s been trained for situations like this. Then he wonders if _he_ will be trained for situations like this. He jolly well hopes so, or he fears he will never sleep comfortably again.

He nearly jumps when Harry shifts and turns over onto his back. Draco takes this as a sign he should perhaps move, so he gently shifts himself until he is in a more comfortable position. He hears Harry sigh and risks a glance over at him, but the other man’s eyes are closed. Draco makes a conscious effort to relax the muscles in his shoulders, which are tight from the stress of just lying in his bed.

Finally Draco decides that he is being ridiculous. It’s just Potter after all. And he so he turns onto his side, pulling the blankets closer around himself.

In moments, he is asleep.

…

The next day dawns bright and early, but Draco does not wake with the sun the way that he normally does. Instead, he slumbers past his usual waking time and does not stir until Harry prods him awake at ten.

He scowls up at the admittedly attractive annoyance.

“What?” he snaps.

“As much I would love to let you sleep the day away, it's ten and we have things to do.”

“Things?”

“Hermione’s booked us for an exclusive interview with Witch Weekly at eleven. You know, to announce that we’re dating. I imagine they will want to take lots of pictures.” This gets Draco’s attention. He sits up and it is only as he does so that he realizes Harry has brought him breakfast in bed. A tray hovers behind the brunet and Draco can smell both coffee and bacon. His stomach rumbles.

“Is that for me?” He points at the tray.

“I figured it was the fastest way to get you out of bed.”

“Harsh,” Draco says. “But fair.” Harry shrugs.

“It was Greg’s suggestion.”

“In all fairness, the idea of being in Witch Weekly would have been enough.”

“So I can eat your bacon then?”

“No!”

“Fine,” Potter grumbles. “I will not eat your bacon if you manage to shower and get back here within fifteen minutes.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Time is ticking.”

“You’re the worst,” Draco says. He starts to push the covers back before he realizes he is wearing only boxers.

“I get results.”

“Sure you do,” Draco agrees. “Now look away again, please.” Potter obliges and Draco scrambles out of bed and runs into the bathroom. Once the door is shut, he pauses for a moment, taking stock of how strange his life is going to be with Potter in it all the the time.

Does this mean he will be sleeping over most nights? Is it the end of Draco’s privacy? He is already aware of the fact that it is the end of his dating life, but he's not sure how well he can handle Potter in his life twenty four seven. The last time they were in such close proximity, they were at Hogwarts and Potter had given him the lovely web of scars on his chest.

He looks down at the pale raised lines of skin and touches one of them gently. He shivers. Things are clearly different now. Potter is fake dating him, and, he thinks, if they are going to lose control of their emotions now, it is more likely going to end up with torn clothes, rather than torn skin.

He shakes his head and walks over to his shower. He doesn’t have time to dwell on this. There’s bacon waiting for him.

…

“I’m here to interview for the open sales position,” Pansy says, tugging her shirt straighter and plastering on what she knows is a winning smile. Richard Burns stares back at her in bewilderment.

“I’m sorry?” he hazards.

“The open sales position,” Pansy said again. She keeps the smile on her face and hopes that it doesn't look manic.

“I don’t remember any,” Richard mumbles to himself.

“This one,” Pansy says, thrusting the job posting parchment into his hands. It is clear to her that someone in her department has fucked up and not informed Richard of his new opening. She is going to find out who that was and have some rather angry words with them. And perhaps add a laxative potion to their coffee.

Richard squints down at the parchment. It has his signature on it. He scratches his head and Pansy tries to reach out with the softest Legillimancy she can manage to hear his thoughts. She draws back as he adjusts his glasses and looks up at her.

“I must have forgotten,” he says. “I’m terribly sorry about that Miss Parkinson.” He beckons her towards his office. “Come in, come in.” She follows him inside.

And of course, she nails the interview.

…

“Mr. Potter,” a tall witch with flaming orange hair greets Harry warmly, sweeping him into an embrace as soon as they enter the Witch Weekly offices. She lets go of his shoulders and turns to Draco.

“And you must be Mr. Malfoy.” He nods, unsure of what to say. “My name is Gillian.” She pronounces it with a hard G.

“Nice to meet you,” Draco says. He holds out a hand, but she wraps both of her arms around him instead, hugging him the way she had hugged Harry.

“You sure know how to pick them, Potter,” she says as she releases Draco. “He’s gorgeous.” Draco can’t help the smile that creeps across his face. She bustles them further into the office, chattering to Harry about the last time he graced the Witch Weekly cover, while Draco walks along in silence, taking it all in.

The office looked small on the outside, but in true wizard fashion is much larger on the inside. What had appeared to be one room of a dingy office building in Pimlico, is instead a cavernous room with three meter ceilings and lots of natural light that filters down from a large curved dome. There are many doors off of the main room, and Gillian ushers them through one of them.

“Sit,” she instructs, pointing at the two make up chairs in the middle of the room. Draco does not need telling twice. Harry rolls his eyes at Gillian but makes his way over to the available chair. “I’ll be back when you’re both even more beautiful,” she says. “And then the real fun begins!”

She shuts the door behind her with a click. Draco starts to reach for the nearest hairbrush, but Harry shakes his head. Draco frowns in confusion for a moment before the curtains at the end of the room twitch and two women come out from behind them.

They look like sisters and Draco can’t help but stare. They are slender and pale, both with long cascades of jet black hair. Their dark eyes are both rimmed with red and when the shorter one smiles and begins to glide over to Harry, Draco notices her fangs.

“Harry,” the shorter vampire says as she reaches his chair. “So good to see you again.”

“Genevieve,” he says, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Lovely to see you too.”

“And who do we have here?” the other vampire asks as she reaches Draco. She places a hand on his shoulder. It is cold.

“This is my boyfriend, Celia. So hands off. His name is Draco.” Draco turns in time to see her smirk at Harry, her fangs catching the light from the lighted mirrors. He turns back to the mirror and notices with a start that neither Celia nor Genevieve show up in them.

“Right then,” Genevieve says, turning to the make up table. “Let’s make you presentable.” The pair of them get to work, their hands a near blur of activity, and Draco watches in fascination as his face is powdered and lined and blurred and what have you in the mirror, seemingly of its own accord.

By the end, he is not sure quite how they have done it, but they have made him look better without making him look all that much different at all. And when he turns to look at Harry, he has to suppress a small intake of breath. Harry’s eyes seem to sparkle more emerald than usual and he looks well rested and flawless. No wonder all the witches who read Witch Weekly fawn over him. And he is all Draco’s. At least for pretend.

Next, they are ushered into the wardrobe room, where a fabulously dressed, bland faced wizard named Evander has them change into so many outfits, that Draco begins to lose count. Once dressed to his satisfaction - Draco in a grey silk shirt and Harry in a forest green turtleneck, both paired with black trousers - Evander sends them out to Gillian.

She brings them to the center of the room, where a large screen has been set up. She waves her wand at it, and immediately it is filled with tall, dark tree trunks. She waves her wand again, conjuring more tree trunks out of thin air to stand in front of the screen before she transfigures the carpet into the forest floor.

She stares at it for a long moment and then pushes Harry into the frame. She has him lean slightly against one of the conjured tree trunks and then puts Draco behind him.

“May I?” she asks, reaching out to move Draco’s arms. He nods. She places his arms around Harry’s waist and has him put his head on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Draco whispers as she walks over to her camera.

“Hello yourself.” Draco shifts slightly behind Harry, letting his arms encircle the brunet more naturally.

“Good, now stay there,” Gillian calls from behind the camera. There is a flash as the camera goes off and immediately Draco freezes up as the reality of the situation hits him. Everyone is going to see his face and know who he is. All Draco can see now is the camera.

“Relax,” Harry mutters, but somehow that makes it worse. Draco’s shoulders are tensed up by his ears now and he can’t remember how they got there. His grip on Harry is tight and Harry wiggles in his arms. Gillian starts to move towards them, but Harry turns in Draco’s arms, ignoring her. He reaches up and puts a hand on Draco’s cheek.

“Look at me,” he instructs. Draco flicks his eyes away from the camera. “Are you OK?” Draco nods. “Because we don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Not if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m right here for you.”

“Thanks.” Draco gives him a small smile and the camera flashes again.

“That’s wonderful.” Gillian’s voice sounds far away as Draco decides to lose himself in Harry’s eyes. He leans forward and presses their foreheads together, not breaking eye contact and he feels Harry shift in his arms again. Another flash. Gillian calls out instructions and Draco relaxes into the rhythm of the shoot.

Evander has them change outfits after ten minutes. Harry now wears a black tuxedo, and Draco a white, and Gillian transforms the photo area into a large ballroom.

“Is there any reason we don’t just go to places with these backgrounds?” Draco asks. They are wizards after all, and could apparate anywhere they wanted to.

“I can control the light and weather this way,” she explains.

“True, you never can tell when it’s going to rain,” Draco says. He regrets this comment toward the end of the shoot as Gillian, seemingly inspired by what he had said, decides that it would be interesting to have a picture of them in a downpour.For this, Draco wears a tan trench coat, while Harry wears just a plain white button-down shirt, which quickly turns translucent in the conjured rain. Perhaps, Draco thinks, the woman knows what she is talking about.

“OK, now I want you two to face each other.” They oblige, turning away from the camera to stare at each other. Draco tries to keep his eyes fixed on Harry’s face, but they keep flicking down to his wet torso.

“Draco, my eyes are up here,” Harry whispers.

“Closer together,” Gillian instructs. They move towards each other until they are face to face. Before he can stop himself, Draco reaches out an pulls Harry flush against him. He tells himself it’s for the pictures, but he knows it’s more than that. There is a flash as the camera goes off. Draco ignores it.

Harry looks so much like he did in the shower yesterday morning, that Draco’s body reacts to the memory. He watches Harry’s lips curl into a smirk.

“Are you remembering the shower?” Harry asks.

“Are you?” Flash. Harry licks his lips. Flash.

“Maybe,” says Harry’s mouth, while Harry’s body says something else entirely.

“Now grab his coat by the collar, Harry,” Gillian says. Harry brings his hands up and wraps his fists in the fabric of Draco’s jacket, pulling their faces closer together. Draco swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. Harry’s lips are inches from his. In his nervous excitement, Draco worries his bottom lip between his teeth. There is another flash.

“Wonderful,” Gillian says. There is a long pause where neither of them move and then Gillian prompts them again. “Now kiss, please.” Draco does not need telling twice. He closes the gap between them and presses his lips onto Harry’s. He is vaguely aware of more flashes going off, but he is too wrapped up in the kiss to notice.

So much for self control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this. Hockey has taken over my life.


	11. Draco Versus The Park

“You realize that’s going to be the cover,” Harry says once they have changed back into their own clothes and left the Witch Weekly offices.

“What is?”

“The kiss.”

“What?” Draco stops walking in his surprise.

“It’s _Witch Weekly_. Of course they’re going to go with the raciest picture for the cover.”

“Oh shit.” But Harry just shrugs.

“Gillian will probably make it look classy. She has a soft spot for me.”

“Is that why you had a translucent shirt?” Draco asks, unable to keep the amusement out of his tone.

“Oh, most definitely. Her readers will _love_ it.” Draco starts to laugh, but Harry continues speaking. “Just like you did.” Draco stops walking again.

“That’s not fair,” he splutters. “I was acting.”

“Were you?”

“You have no evidence that says otherwise.” Harry arches an eyebrow at him.

“No evidence, you say?” His eyes flick downwards towards Draco’s crotch and Draco flushes.

“You can hardly talk,” Draco retorts. Harry shrugs and starts to walk again. Draco follows. They walk through the streets of Muggle London in silence for a few minutes, taking turns seemingly at random until Draco asks where they are going.

“Nowhere in particular,” Harry says. “I was slowly directing us back towards my house, but is there anywhere else you would want to go?”

“Potter, your house is bloody miles from here.”

“It’s not miles. It’s about a half hour’s brisk walk,” Harry protests. “And it’s a lovely one - down the Embankment.” Draco narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Plus, it’s a beautiful day,” Harry continues.

This is true. It is one of the rare sunny days where London is warm, but not sweltering. They turn the corner of the street they are on and the river comes into view at the end of the road. Sunlight streams down through the trees that line the Embankment and Draco finds himself relenting.

“Fine,” he grouses. “Let’s go on your bloody romantic walk.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s just a walk along the river.”

“You say that, but look.” Draco gestures at the dappled light and the - well, mostly brown - river. “Just look at that bridge.”

“If you think that bridge is nice, just wait until you see the next one.”

“This is not helping your case.”

“All _I_ suggested was walking home. You’re the one who called it a romantic walk.” Draco cannot admit that Harry is right as that will mean that Harry has won, so instead he says nothing until they have crossed the street and are walking along the river path.

“Half an hour, you said?” he asks, checking his watch.

“Give or take.” But Draco has stopped walking again and is staring at his watch. The face of it has turned a funny purple color.

“What’s this?“ he asks, pointing at it.

“It means you have a message.”

“A message?” Harry sighs. It is clear to Draco that Harry thinks someone else should have explained this to him.

“You’ll need to poke it with your wand and whisper ‘Show me’ for it to work.” He steers Draco to the nearest bench and sits him down. “But try to make it subtle.” He glances around at the few pedestrians who are also strolling along the Embankment at one pm on a Monday.

Draco gently extends his wand out from under his sleeve and taps the watch, following Harry’s instructions. Small words scroll around the watch face.

_Meet your newest co-worker: me! How are you two doing on establishing your cover? - Pansy_

Draco glances up at Harry, but the other man is not looking at him, but rather gazing out over the river.

“How do I respond?” Draco asks, bringing Harry’s attention back to him.

“Tap your watch with your finger now.” Draco does and a small menu pops up. One option reads ‘respond’, so Draco taps that.

“Now what?”

“Hold it up to your mouth and say your response. The watch will translate it into text which will show up on the other Unspeakable’s watch.” Draco nods and does as instructed, holding the watch close and muttering in to it so that Harry cannot hear him.

“We have just been to Witch Weekly to establish Potter and me as a couple. Thanks for your _wonderful_ suggestion of a cover story, by the way.” He pulls his wrist away and looks down at the watch. Sure enough, his words are there in text form, with a small ‘Send?’ above it. Draco realizes that sarcasm might not come across well in text only format. It looks as though he is actually thanking her, when he means the opposite. (Or does he?) He tries again, replacing the word wonderful with terrible and then sends it.

“I’ll have Banks show you how it fully works the next time we’re in the office,” Harry says. He pushes himself off the bench and they continue their walk. A few paces later, Draco feels his watch vibrate. He starts and looks down at it. It is glowing purple again. He is not sure how he missed the vibration the first time around. He supposes he must have been distracted during their photo shoot.

He doesn’t stop as he quickly prods the watch face with his wand.

 _Haha_ is all that Pansy’s response reads. He scowls at the watch. Of course she is enjoying this. And if Draco’s honest with himself, he kind of is too.

…

Harry knows he should stop flirting. Harry knows he should give himself more time to get over Oliver before launching his emotions into anything new, particularly if that thing is also _not supposed to happen or he could lose his job_. He knows he is playing with fire. But he just can’t stop himself.

There is something about Draco Malfoy that he just can’t resist. There probably always has been. And now that Draco has suggested that this walk is a romantic one, Harry almost sees it that way. The weather is nice. There are very few people around, and the view of Battersea Park across the river is so green and inviting.

“Do you want to go to the park?” he asks on a whim.

“The park?” Draco asks. Harry points across the river.

“That park.”

“Why?”

“To get spotted by wizarding paparazzi, of course.”

“But we just-”

“-More can only help.”

“You have no off button, do you?” Draco asks. Harry shrugs.

“It's my job.” Does it tire Harry to always be on alert and be aware that people could spot him at any minute? Yes, but he also feels like he has trained for it his whole life. He knows how to have a good time while also worrying about other things. “But at least the park might be relaxing.”

“How so?”

“In the park, we can lie on the grass and just chat.” Harry is now very enthusiastic about this idea and so he turns back to the Battersea bridge and they start in that direction.

“What would we have to chat about?”

“Oh, I don't know. How about our halcyon school days?” Harry grins.

“You mean the ones where we tried to kill each other all the time?”

“You never _really_ tried to kill me,” Harry says. He reaches out and takes Draco’s hand as they walk. For appearances sake, of course.

“No, but you _did_ try to kill _me_ ,” Draco replies softly. He gently pulls his hand out of Harry's grasp.

They make their way across the bridge in silence. Harry doesn't know what to say. He's not a hundred percent sure what Draco means, but he doesn't want to ask about it until they are sprawled on the grass in the sun. The closer they get to the park, the more Harry feels like this is the right way to spend the afternoon. They both have baggage, much of which concerns each other, and it will be easier to talk about in a neutral setting for both of them.

As they enter Battersea park, they encounter an ice cream truck. Harry decides that ice cream is exactly what they need on this sunny, summer day, and so gets them each a Cornetto. They meander through the park, eating their ice creams, until they find a small knoll topped with a tree, which provides shade from the afternoon sun. They settle under the tree, Harry sprawled on the grass but propped up by his elbow and Draco sitting cross legged beside him.

It is warm, but not overly so, and Harry takes his time finishing his ice cream. He wishes he’d had the foresight to buy some water as well, as the Cornetto is making him thirsty. He supposes he could apparate home to get some, but that would defeat the purpose of walking home. Instead, he finishes his ice cream, savoring the chocolate at the end of the cone. When he is done, he rolls onto his back and stretches his arms above his head.

“Comfy, Potter?” Draco asks.

“Very.” Harry closes his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. But they are not just here to relax, so he sits up after luxuriating for a moment.

“What did you mean by saying that I’d tried to kill you?” he asks. There is no point in avoiding the topic, so he decides to get right to the point.

“You don’t remember?” Draco looks almost hurt.

“I more meant, can you remind me which particular time?” Harry hazards. He knows this doesn’t really make it sound better. Draco narrows his eyes but nods. He reaches up and undoes his top two buttons, pulling open his shirt to reveal a spiderweb of pale scars.

“Do you remember now?” Draco asks. He lets the shirt go and the cloth falls back to cover the majority of the scars, but Harry can still see the shiny edge of one just below Draco’s collar. He bites his lip. This is what he had thought Draco was referring to.

“That was one of the worst days of my life,” Harry whispers. “I felt absolutely awful for what I had done to you.” In his mind’s eye, he can still see Draco lying on the bathroom floor, covered in blood, with Moaning Myrtle’s shrieks in the background.He shudders at the memory.

“Why? We were enemies,” Draco says.

“No, we weren’t. I didn’t _like_ you,” Harry clarifies. “But I never really thought of you as my enemy. Had I known that was what the curse did, I would never have used it.”

“You used an _unknown curse_ on me?” Draco asks, incredulous.

“It’s a long story.”

“We have time.” Harry sighs. Draco is right. They have all the time in the world to talk about all of the things he has tried to forget from his school days. He sighs.

“Where do I even start?”

…

“So let me get this straight,” Draco says after listening to Harry relate much of his sixth year at Hogwarts. “You had a book that helped you with potions?” He is laying on his side in the grass now, propped up on an elbow.

“Yes.”

“And it was Snape’s old book that he had written in?”

“Yes.”

“Shit, no wonder you were suddenly better at Potions than I was.” Harry gives him a tight lipped smile. “You know you took away my only joy from that year?” It is true. Potions was the only class that had kept Draco going during sixth year, consumed as he was by the challenge of getting the stupid matching cabinets to work.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He truly looks it. He is looking up at Draco through his eyelashes.

“Oh, stop it with the puppy dog eyes,” Draco snaps at him, but he smiles to let him know he isn’t overly annoyed.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not sure I actually _learned_ anything. I was still clueless when it came to theory. Do you remember the lesson where Slughorn had us brew antidotes to his mystery poison?”

“Do I ever? That was possibly the hardest potions challenge he ever gave us. And possibly the only one that I beat you at that year.”

“Yep,” Harry says. “All I could think of was a bezoar.”He buries his face in his hands, ashamed even now.

“That took balls,” Draco says. He gives Harry a small smile as he thinks back to how shocked everyone had been that the Golden Boy had all but cheated on that assignment.

“That was my Hail Mary pass,” Harry says. Draco frowns at him, unsure of what the phrase means. “Right, that’s a muggle term, and an American one on top of that. It’s basically a very long pass in American football, typically made in desperation, with only a small chance of success and or time running out on the clock. Which is _exactly_ what the bezoar was for me.” Draco nods.

“So you mean to say that I _am_ better at Potions than you are?” he asks. Harry smirks at him.

“You still care about that?”

“Of course. It was the only time I ever felt more accomplished than you in school.”

“Well, then I’m sure you will be pleased to hear that there are still times that we have to brew potions at the Ministry. You can show me up to all my superiors.” Draco pumps his fist in excitement.

“Yes,” he cries. Harry rolls his eyes.

“Oh, quiet you,” he says. “And come here.” Harry gestures towards himself.

“Sorry?”

“Don’t you want to pose for the tabloid witches?”

“Are they around? I can’t see anyone.” Draco looks around, wondering if Harry can see something he can’t. Perhaps Harry has better eyes for this kind of thing as he has lived with it his whole life.

“Oh, I have no idea,” Harry says, dispelling this idea. “I just figure that if I’m out in a public place, they must be hiding somewhere.”

“I can’t decide if that is vanity or paranoia,” Draco says, but he shifts over until he is laying closer to Harry. It is clearly not what Harry wanted him to do, because the brunet sighs deeply before raising himself up on his knees and shuffling behind Draco’s head and sitting down again.

“Lay on me,” he commands. “Rest your head on my chest. Oh, better yet, I will lean against the tree and then you lean against me.”

“This is quite the production,” Draco mutters, but he does as Harry requests and a moment later, he finds himself happily ensconced between Harry’s legs, resting his head on Harry’s chest. Harry shifts underneath him, until he is comfortable, and then wraps his arms around Draco.

“I’m so sorry about that curse,” he says quietly into Draco’s hair. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you.” Draco shrugs.

“I probably deserved it.”

“No.” Harry’s voice is fierce against his head.

“But I was working to get Death Eaters into the school.” It is a thing Draco regrets to this day.

“Did you have a choice?” Draco closes his eyes and the image of Voldemort looming at him in the middle of his father’s study, shortly after Lucius’s arrest is as clear as day in his head. He shudders and feels Harry’s arms tighten around him. “I didn’t think so.”

…

They stay in the park for another few hours, talking about their school days, laughing about how much a jerk Snape had been to Harry. They apologize ad nauseum to each other for how mean they had been to each other. Draco tries not to take it too personally when Harry laughs for a solid minute at the memory of the time Mad Eyed Moody had turned him into a ferret. But Draco has to admit, when he looks back at those days, he is almost unsurprised that his parents had had a bet on he and Potter getting together. His entire school years were filled with their (mostly awful) interactions.

“Now, did you really want to come here for the photo op?” Draco asks. He is now laying in the grass with his head in Harry’s lap. “Or was it just an excuse to get close to me again.”

“How unprofessional of you to even ask. I am not enjoying this in the slightest.” But the grin on Harry’s face betrays that he is kidding. Or at least that he is good enough at pretending to date someone that he can joke about whether or not he is or is not enjoying himself. Draco isn’t sure how good Harry’s poker face is. He wonders if he should challenge him to an actual game of poker in order to find out. Draco’s own poker face is out of practice, but he knows that with time, it will come right back to him. A benefit of growing up with the threat of Voldemort around the house.

“Yeah, me neither,” Draco says. “Absolutely miserable.” Harry reaches down and ruffles Draco’s hair. Draco sits up abruptly and smooths it back down.

“That was uncalled for, you cretin,” he says.

“I’m a cretin, am I?”

“Yes.”

“Eh,” Harry says, leaning back against the tree trunk. “I’ve been called worse.”

“By me, I’m sure.” At this, Harry laughs. He reaches out and pulls Draco back against his chest, they way they had been earlier. Draco smiles as Harry wraps his arms around him again. In spite of himself, he feels safe in Harry’s arms. But then, is that so strange? Harry is around to protect him. Just as he feels Harry lean down and kiss the top of his head, which makes his stomach turn over in excitement, his watch buzzes and turns orange.

“What does this mean?” he asks, holding up his wrist to show Harry.

“Moving picture message with sound.”

“So, like a video?” Draco asks.

“I wasn’t sure if you knew what videos were,” Harry mumbles.

“How do I watch it?” Harry pushes Draco off of his chest, and then sits up straighter. He looks around for a long moment, sweeping his gaze around the park.

“Ideally, it wouldn’t be in public,” he says quietly.

“So, we should go pretend to make out in some bushes like we’re horny teenagers?” Draco points to a large, leafy tangle of bushes a few hundred meters away. Harry seems to weigh this idea for a moment before nodding. Draco clambers to his feet and then takes Harry’s hand and pulls him up. Then he drags him, looking around conspiratorially, to the bush.

Once they are ensconced in its leafy embrace, he pulls out his wand and looks to Harry as to how to get the message to play.

“You just tap it and say ‘Show me’,” Harry says. “Same as the other messages.” Draco nods and does so. Pansy’s face projects out from the watch face.

“Draco,” she says. Her voice seems to fill Draco’s head without traveling through his ears. “We need you to look at this. This man just entered the country on a falsified visa.” He frowns as she holds up a picture of a person. And then it happens again. That strange feeling of suddenly knowing something. Or, more accurately, suddenly recalling a thing he already knows, but had briefly forgotten. He stares at the face again.

“What is is?” Harry asks.

“That man is plotting to kill someone tonight. At the Dorchester Hotel.” Another puzzle piece slides into place in Draco’s brain. “That Croatian diplomat. Heilgar Mottić.” He blinks, suddenly fatigued and slumps his shoulders. 

“Is that all you know?” Harry asks. “Do you know how he’s going to do it?” Draco shakes his head, and then frowns. 

“The man, Marc Thiessen, is a known poisoner. Or, at least suspected. He’s often been in the area when high profile poisonings have taken place, but no one has been able to pin anything on him yet.” 

“We need to take this to Croaker,” Harry says. Draco nods, then jumps as Harry grabs his arm and they disapparate. 

It has been a while since Draco has done side-along apparition, and the feeling panics him for a moment. But he takes a deep breath, remembering to relax, and then the squeezing sensation is gone and they are standing in the Atrium of the Ministry. There are witches and wizards milling about, something which surprises Draco until he remembers that it is a Monday and that most people have work. 

He spots Pansy through the throngs of people and he tugs Harry in her direction. 

“Well?” she asks, falling into step with them as they make their way over to the elevators. Draco fills her in on his vision. Then he wonders if he should call it a vision as he doesn’t necessarily _see_ anything, he just _knows_ things. Like a flash of inspiration. 

“We should take this to Croaker,” Pansy says as he finishes his explanation. “Or Granger.” Harry shrugs. 

“Either one,” he says. “I think Hermione is our direct Head for this project, right?” Pansy thinks for a minute before nodding. She presses the down button on the elevator. 

…

“Good work, Malfoy,” Hermione says once Draco has told her what he knows. Then she turns to Harry and Parkinson, who are standing slightly off to the side. “You three will go to the party tonight. Harry, you will go as yourself. Malfoy, you are his date. After all, it’s official now isn’t it?” She allows herself a small smile. “Parkinson, you will disguised as a waiter.” 

Parkinson looks as though she is about to roll her eyes, but she nods instead. 

“I want you to stop this murder from happening. When you get to the party, I want you to find Thiessen and surreptitiously tail him. If you can, photograph him slipping Mottić the poison, and then prevent the poisoned object from getting to Mottić. Once we have evidence that he’s been behind these poisonings, we can arrest him. But until then, you are to keep a low profile. Is that understood?” The three of them nod. 

“What’s the attire?” Harry asks. He prays that it’s black tie. It’s been so long since he’s been to a formal function and he’s dying to get his tuxedo out again. 

“Black tie,” Hermione confirms. Harry tries to hide his little wiggle of joy, but he knows Hermione caught it. He can tell by the twinkle in her eye. 

“Crap,” Draco says. They all turn to him. “I don’t have a tuxedo.” 

“Well then,” Hermione says, clapping her hand together once. “I guess you should go and see Bertie.” 

…

Draco says nothing as he follows Harry and Pansy back out of Hermione’s office. There is a bounce in Potter’s step for reasons that Draco doesn’t know. He wants to ask who the mysterious Bertie is, but he reckons he will learn in short order, so he stays quiet. Seemingly whoever put together the Reliquary did not include information on this Bertie fellow. Either he is so top secret that he is not even _in_ the Reliquary, or he is so universally known that he wears deemed unnecessary in a database of secret information. 

It turns out to be the latter. 

They take the elevator to the fourteenth floor of the ministry and step out into a bustling corridor. Draco follows Harry and Pansy as they make their way past a long line along one wall. He is surprised to see that it leads to a single room, and is even more surprised when Harry pulls out his Unspeakable badge, flashes it, and cuts to the head of said line. 

Draco squints at the plaque next to the door. It reads Bertram Rail, Clothier. Draco is still frowning at the plaque when the door opens and Harry ushers him inside. Pansy waits outside for reasons that become abundantly clear when Harry immediately pushes Draco into a changing room and instructs him to strip down to his underwear. 

“But,” he says.

“Bertie is very busy, Draco. He doesn’t have time for your modesty.” Draco tries to protest, but realizes it is useless. He quickly disrobes and then peeks his head out from behind the changing room door. 

Harry is deep in conversation with a tall (relatively), slender young goblin. Draco coughs nervously and they turn to face him. 

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” the goblin says. “Please come here.” Draco steps tentatively out into the room and stands on the box that the goblin points to. 

“This is Bertie,” Harry says to Draco. He is taking great care to look only at Draco’s face, which Draco appreciates. “He’s going to fit you for some clothes.” Harry turns back to Bertie. “He probably needs a full party set, Bert. Suits in all colors and styles, both Muggle and wizard. Also a tuxedo. Oh, and some pajamas.”

“Pajamas?” Draco asks. 

“I think maybe silk ones, don’t you think?” Harry carries on, ignoring Draco. 

“Yes, silk is good,” Bertie says. Then he turns to Draco. “Stand up straight. Arms out. Don’t move.”

Once Draco is measured, a process which seems to take an age and involves pretending to be fine with a stranger touching him all over, Bertie claps his hands and sends Draco back to the dressing room. He gratefully changes back into his clothes and when he emerges, Bertie waves him out into the corridor. 

“I shall send your items to your residence, Mr. Malfoy. Expect them in,” he consults his watch. “About an hour.” And that is that. 

…

Bertie is true to his word. An hour after Draco leaves his… office? a large parcel arrives by owl mail to his house. 

“What’s that?” Greg asks, eyeing the small fleet of owls that were employed to carry the package. 

“Mail order clothes,” Draco says in what he hopes is a convincing voice. He had not anticipated Greg being home when the clothes arrived. Nor did he imagine there would be so bloody many of them. 

“You been mail ordering while drunk again?” Greg asks. 

“Yes,” Draco says. “With my birthday money.” Greg nods, satisfied at this explanation, and goes back to the game of Wizard’s Chess he is playing against Harry. Harry, as it turns out, is not very good at Wizard’s Chess. 

“Ah, shit,” Harry says as Greg’s queen dismembers his knight. “I did not see that coming.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be good at this?” Draco asks. He has wrestled the parcel in the window, using a shrinking charm. Now he is surrounded by a gaggle of owls, all wanting treats. He reaches into the bread bin and tears off chunks of a loaf for them. 

“What makes you say that?” Harry asks. 

“Wasn’t there that thing, in first year, when there was something to do with you and a giant chess match or whatever?” Draco asks. He ushers the owls back out of the window and then shuts it behind them with a loud bang. 

“Nah,” Harry says. “That was all Ron.” 

“That explains a lot,” Greg says. He watches as Harry makes his next move and then sends his bishop after one of Harry’s pawns. Harry looks as though he might protest for a moment, but then slowly nods his head as the bishop whacks his pawn clear off of the board. 

“What is the Weasel up to these days anyway?” Draco asks. He sits down next to Harry at the table. 

“ _Ron_ ,” Harry says pointedly. “Is running Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes with George.”

“Oh,” Greg says. “That’s just up the street. We should invite him over sometime.” Draco wants to vehemently say no, but Harry’s face lights up at the idea, so he squashes his feelings. He supposes this is what comes from fake dating Potter. At least Granger _knows_ their relationship is a cover and so he won’t need to befriend her. 

“Yes,” Harry says. “We _should_ have Ron and Hermione over. Then you can have a proper game of chess.” So much for not needing to get to know Granger. Draco looks at his watch. 

“Uh, Harry,” he says. “We need to get ready.” Both Harry and Greg turn to look at him.

“Ready for what?” Greg asks. 

“We’re going to a party,” Harry explains. He sighs, as though bored by it already. “I get invited to all these boring diplomatic parties.”

“Ah, yes,” Greg says. “Being famous must be so difficult.” Harry purses his lips but says nothing. 

“So, shall we go change?” Draco asks pointedly after enough time has gone by that it is awkward. Harry nods and pushes his chair back from the table. 

“Don’t wait up,” he says, winking at Greg. 

“Golden cock,” Greg mutters to himself as they leave the room. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated. :)


End file.
